


The Things We Do

by Se7en_devils



Category: Star Trek: Alternate Original Series (Movies)
Genre: Aliens Made Them Do It, Crack, Feels, Fingerfucking, Fluffy Ending, Frottage, General idiocy, Humor, M/M, POV First Person, Parody, Romance, Sarcasm Galore, Sexual Content, Unresolved Sexual Tension, everyone is oblivious, star trek big bang 2013
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-11-17
Updated: 2013-11-17
Packaged: 2018-01-01 19:54:51
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings, No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 33,323
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1047935
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Se7en_devils/pseuds/Se7en_devils
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>The progression of Spock and Kirk’s relationship, shown through snippets.  Snippets of crack, that is.  Wherein it’s always the aliens, Jim can’t stop kirking up, and McCoy is a doctor, not a porn star damnit!</p>
            </blockquote>





	The Things We Do

**Author's Note:**

> Well, hello there! Welcome to my very first Big Bang and phew! Can't believe I actually made it! It was a lot of work (especially since I came in only a month before the rough draft due date, almost two months late), but it was so, so, so worth it! I met a lot of great people, including my gorgeous artist [crimsonswirls](http://archiveofourown.org/users/crimsonswirls), who deserves a special shout out for the ten or so aneurysms that I gave her during the course of this, mostly because gmail is a dick, and my lovely fanmixer [Aaweth-Edain](http://aaweth-edain.livejournal.com/) who I have the utmost respect for, due to the fact that she's involve in, like, ten different big bangs at once (you go girl!). Plus, she's just kinda awesome in general. They both are, really. As usual, a shout out goes to the fantabulous [ Expelliar-Moose](http://expelliar-moose.tumblr.com/) for being the best motivator, beta, and muse ever. Like, seriously, so much shit would not be done without her.
> 
> So, to the story. Yeah, that thing. This is set about three or so years after _Into Darkness_ and is complete, utter, pure crack. It was inspired by a conversation between my sister and I, where we discussed the effectiveness of Klingon diplomacy and from there it pretty much grew wings and flew off into the sunset as I dutifully chased after it with my trusty pen and paper.
> 
> Warnings include epic grammar mistakes, massive rambling, and first person POV from yours truly (a.k.a Jim, you have been officially warned). Without further ado, enjoy!

 

 

 

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[View Crimson's Gorgeous Art!](../works/1047568) | [Listen To Aaweth's Amazing Soundtrack!](http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=pAbpEfKTMVw&list=PLv8lCPpg4QQBtCE63pKks0nQ3ScWURYl1)

__

_**Unnamed Planet. February 17, 2263** _

**_Di-plo-ma-cy_ **

**_1._ ** _The art and practice of discussing negotiations between nations_

 **_2._ ** _Skill in handling international affairs without arousing hostility_

Goddamnit. 

_You’re so screwed._

Ugh, so not helping.

_Pike’s gonna kill you ~_

God, shut up. 

A huff escapes my lips, drawing several pairs of eyes to me.  Whatever; let them stare.  I don’t care.  I mean I do, but… eh, never mind.

So according to Spock the average human learns approximately one hundred new things a day.  Then again, also according to Spock the average Vulcan can take in somewhere around _five hundred_ new things a day.  How much of that is actually true though and how much is pure, utter _bullshit_?  I have no idea.

I’m willing to say fifty-fifty.

Anyways, back to the point; humans learn about a hundred new things a day and I didn’t know that.  It’s super ironic and probably only half as funny as it should be, but whatever.  I didn’t know that and I found it interesting, like diplomacy?  Yeah, that has an official definition - definitely didn’t know that. 

Or at least I think it was official.  It sounded official.  I’m sure it’s probably written down somewhere, lost in some San Franciscan pile of dusty regulations no one’s read in a couple hundred years.   I mean, that sounds right…right?   I think.  I mean… I’m sure…he wouldn’t…of course not.  I’m sure it’s somewhere at least kinda, sorta official-ish, somewhere that _isn’t_ the ending clause of Pike’s latest transmission.  Subtlety has never really been his forte.

The big, bolded, underlined, and italicized words in size seventy-two font only proves my point, all complete in their glory when I received the written transcript of that transmission.  So does making me repeat the definition back to him for what had to have been, like, an hour, I swear. Okay…five minutes, but it totally felt like an hour, because I definitely have the damn thing memorized.  God, I bet it’s not even official, probably not even approved by Starfleet either and…except… Well, except that isn’t right, now is it?  ‘Official’ and ‘Starfleet’?  It’s like those words are supposed to mean something, except that they really don’t. 

Sometimes, when you’re in the ass end of space, little things like rules don‘t apply. 

Actually, scratch that.  When you’re in the ass end of space, rules never apply.  _Never._   And words like ‘official’ and ‘Starfleet’?  They don’t mean shit. ‘Cause let’s face it, officially, there’s a lot of shit we’re not supposed to do that we kinda do anyways.  Like, officially helmsmen probably aren’t supposed to be fucking barely-eighteen-navigators.  And officially, Chief Medical Officers probably aren’t supposed to have stashes of liquor in their desks and officially, Chief Communications Officers probably aren’t supposed to throat punch people, and officially the list goes on. And according to Starfleet… Well, according to the ‘Fleet the adventure of a lifetime is jumping off a cliff because they forgot to tell you about the dangerous natives.  It’s hoping  _not today, please not today_ like any sane human, even though according to them that’s downright emotional compromise.  According to Starfleet, breaking a regulation is the end of the world but breaking a few, couple hundred bones is nothing but child's play.  

You get my point.

It’s just how life works; sitting behind a desk day-to-day, passing day-to-day legislature in a day-to-day world you don’t understand and being a day-to-day Captain in day-to-day deadly situations with day-to-day non-solutions are two totally different things.  They sit at two opposite ends of the spectrum, even.  Rules come and go, absolute only for a short time, but the situations we get thrown into aren’t.  So sometimes the rules have to be bent.  And broken.  And melded.  And sometimes just plain torn apart and ripped to shreds and thrown into that one dark corner no one ever visits.  They’d never even know…

Still doesn’t make Pike any less right, though. 

Don’t get me wrong, I don’t like diplomacy.  I may even _hate_ it – a word usually only reserved for Klingons and vegetables – and my crew?  My crew definitely hates it, mostly because we’re all (kinda) sane, (debatably) respectable members of the Starfleet community. 

That still doesn’t mean he isn’t any fucking less right. 

And it still doesn’t make diplomacy as useless as I’d like it to be.  Because yeah, I hate it and yeah it sucks and is a real pain in the ass, but would we be better without it?  Probably not.  Diplomacy has its place, don’t get me wrong, and every once in a while diplomacy is really, really, _really_ useful.   Sometimes it’s the fine line between being blown right out of the sky and having a nice, quaint dinner with only slightly homicidal alien hosts.  It's the difference between life and death and the distinction between having a new Dilithium source and being shot at from eleven different directions.  And I know that, a little too well if you ask Bones.  Or anyone in my crew.  Or in Starfleet in general. It’s not exactly a secret that  _Diplomacy 101_  is one of many on the list of classes that James T. Kirk failed.  Twice. 

Apparently it shows. 

Or at least that’s according to Spock and his stupidly natural statistical abilities.  Supposedly, eighty-six-point-something-something percent of all altercations between us and a First Contact species are caused by me.  Something I said, something I did, something I touched or mocked or verbally spit on.

Y’know, the usual. 

Which is…odd, because that didn’t used to be the usual.  I mean, the whole me fucking up was because – _hello –_ this is me we’re talking about, but…well…let’s just say, I never thought I would miss being shot at until we weren't being shot at anymore.  That's what used to happen; I would say something stupid, aliens would chase us down with lethal intent, and then we would jump off a cliff only to be saved in the nick of time.  Of course it all usually tended to end with me being shoved into sickbay, complete with three hours’ worth of Bones lecturing at me and Spock skipping shifts so he could give me that glare that was so totally not a glare, but that’s definitely not the point.  Point is, the whole thing used to be rather cut and dry.

But that was before deep space.  Before some malevolent whatever decided they were bored, or the universe got tired with the usual transporter malfunctions, or maybe fate had the idea that being chased off a cliff just wasn't enough anymore.  I don’t know, because all I do know is that it happened subtly.  Slowly, because if it hadn’t then it probably wouldn’t have happened at all.  Holding hands.  A quick peck.  A not-so-quick peck.  A really-not-so-quick peck.  A little groping.  A lot more than just a little groping.  A-

Well…I should’ve seen it coming, I guess.  We both should have, since it only makes sense; weird shit happens in deep space.   I mean, it’s _deep frickin’ space,_ so in a super twisted sort of way, it was kinda inevitable. ‘It’ being sex.  Lots of sex.  Public sex, usually.   Between me and Spock, always.  Because apparently humans are, like, the only species that doesn’t believe in using public sex as punishment.  The first time it happened, it was an anomaly.  The second time a coincidence.  The third time…I don’t even know.  All I know is that those first couple of times left for some really awkward debriefings.  They were so absolutely bad, so awkwardly memorable, (especially that first one) that they’re not just any old debriefings lost in some old archive from three years ago, they’re _The_ Debriefings. 

Ominous, right?

But fitting nonetheless. 

Especially for that first one.  Because that first one… Well, the entire thing was a bit of a shitstorm from start to finish, beginning with a rush of blurring words ( _"MeandSpockhadsex")_ , and ending with a grand finale of Pike’s frighteningly nonchalant response (" _I knew it")_ that had Spock avoiding me for days.  Really didn‘t help the whole relationship building thing.  Weird, I know.

Or maybe he was avoiding me because of the weird, aliens-made-us-do-it, diplomat sex…

Nah, it was probably Pike.  Pike, who had decided that yelling " _Nogoru, don't think I forget about those sixty credits!"_ and giving a wider than possible grin was totally appropriate.  Goddamn bastard.  Because of course when I tried clarifying (" _It wasn't sex-sex.  It was weird, alien diplomat sex.  Like - hey, don't look at me like that! You think I could make this up?!?! - aliens made us do it... No, seriously!")_ nothing changed.  Pike still grinned like a bit of an idiot, still bet like a fucking drunkard and still yelled (" _You still owe me sixty credits!")_ like a gigantic moron.

Fuck me, right?

Eh… Never mind.  Wrong choice of words.

Anyways, let’s just say that that was one transmission that just might have been cut off mid-sentence, propriety completely and utterly be damned.  Oops.

I guess though, that it only goes to show exactly what I’ve been trying to say this whole time; I suck at diplomacy.  Of course the Federation isn’t much better, but that’s aside the point.  I mean, everyone gets why I’m bad at diplomacy, it’s ‘cause I don’t have a single diplomatic bone in my body, but the Federation?  They have  _too many_  diplomatic bones.  I’m not the first and probably won’t be the last to say that sometimes (okay, a lot of times) the admiralty has this idea that bending over backwards is the way to go, rather than manning the fuck up and protecting their own.  Which is funny in a terribly ironic sort of way, since the only one who seems to be doing any backwards bending - sometimes metaphorical, but usually literal - is me. 

It’s one of the many reasons why a Starfleet Captain really is just an over-qualified, over-paid, and under-appreciated bitch.  The Federation’s bitch, to be exact.  Of course, when I told Pike this he just laughed in my face and told me that that's life, kid; I’m the Federation’s bitch, he's the Federation's bitch, we're all the Federation's bitch! 

…

Except the actual Federation, because they're diplomacy's bitch.  Which means that since we're all already the Federation's bitch that makes us diplomacy’s bitch too.  

And that right there, let me tell you, seriously sucks. Because there’s nothing more humiliating that going from James T-fucking-Kirk, famed captain of the Enterprise, intergalactic hero and nationally recognized badass to the last tier in a hierarchy of bitches.  I mean, come on guys, I'm not even the second-to-last tier; I'm the last.  You would think that since somehow it's always me and Spock that get stuck in these situations and since he's  _my_  first officer and I'm _his_ Captain, that I wouldn't be the one getting fucked over all the time.  But I am.  Literally.

And maybe I'm a little bitter.  So bite me.  

…

Not literally though, because that would be creepy.  I mean, I’m sure some people are into that but… Never mind.  Just…never-fucking-mind. 

Back on topic.

I hate diplomacy, diplomacy hates me, and everyone is the Federation’s bitch.  Right.  Of course, it’s not until you’ve already graduated that you realize any of that.  Only _after_ you're deep into space and there’s a contract that might as well be written in blood and a degree that’s not really a degree but you sold your soul for anyways that it really hits.  Not when you’re in the academy, when life is easy because you’re biggest worries are that hot chick in 22B and classes over Xeno-linguistics and Xeno-biology – which are bullshit, by the way.  Not helpful at all.  The classes should really be over Xeno-fetishes and how-the-hell-to-make-it-out-of-a-diplomatic-situation-turned-sour- _without-_ having-to-be-fucked-by-your-Vulcan-not-boyfriend-kinda-lover-maybe-more-than-a-friend-and-definite-First-officer – now _that’d_ be a useful class.  I’d take it in a heartbeat, cross my heart and hope to die.

…

Y’know, I bet the Klingons have useful classes, because Klingons never get stuck in bullshit like this.

Don’t get me wrong, I hate Klingons.  They’re like gigantic, meaty, snarling spawns of Satan that multiply spontaneously and make my life a living hell.  At best they’re the slightly annoying gnats that won’t leave you’re morning oatmeal alone, and at worst they’re the last nail in a coffin of bureaucratic assholery, sexual frustration, fucked up aliens, and imploding, universe-ending paradoxes. Needless to say, me and the Klingons are not friends, but I do have to give them this; they know how to do diplomacy. 

‘Cause the thing with Klingons is that if you fuck with one, you die.  No questions asked.  So if they want something, they get it.  And if you don't agree with them then that's fine, you might wanna prepare to get nuked, but that's fine.  And if you don't wanna trade well then that's fine too, but I sure hope you have some damn good life insurance though.  And if you…wait…you want them to do  _what_  with their Commander?  Go fuck yourself.

Cased closed, verdict read, the whole shebang, because Klingons?  They know how to do negotiations.  It’s almost an art, the way they completely make diplomacy their groveling bitch.  Maybe Starfleet could take a few pointers.

Just a thought.

Except don’t say that out loud, because then you might as well have just said “Bomb" in a Starbase that’s on red-alert for the amount of hell you’re about to be pulled through.  Especially when you say something like that to any kind of superior, who tend to treat the whole thing a bit like blasphemy.  Then again, First Officers aren’t any better.  The whole lot of them, I swear, are fucking terrible at keeping their mouths shut. 

Especially _Vulcan_ First Officers, because apparently nothing is safe from the innards of their reports.  Not even Saturday Night chess matches.

Of course, the fact that there’s a form for that doesn’t help. At, fucking, all.  Though, neither does the fact that there’s a form for everything, I swear.  Coincidentally, ‘everything’ pretty much translates to diplomacy, diplomacy, and more diplomacy, but whatever.  Some of my personal favorites happen to be: actions taken while under the influence of alien substances/drugs due to diplomatic relations, interpersonal fraternizing due to diplomatic relations,  _voyeuristic_  interpersonal fraternizing due to diplomatic relations, fraternizing that is still fraternizing but not quite full-on sex due to diplomatic relations, accidental matrimony due to diplomatic relations, accidental offspring had due to diplomatic relations, and the list goes on.  And on.  And on.  And on. 

Now, don't ask me  _why_ exactly I know all these forms exist, just know that…actually, just don’t ask.  Let’s just say that for every form that has my name on it there's also one that has Spock's name on it.  Except for the offspring one because that would be weird.  And a little impossible. And very concerning.  And-

Never mind.

Weird shit happens in Starfleet and we’re just gonna leave it at that.    Like, Officers-are-more-pornstars-than-actual-Officers weird shit, not to be confused with everything-is-a-government-cover-up-and-conspiracy-theories-are-everywhere weird shit.  Which, by the way, would be way cooler than the former, just sayin’.

But fate's kinda a bitch like that.

Yeah, I mean, if it weren’t for the PMSing bitch fate is, I wouldn’t have all those nice, slightly creepy, laid out forms saved to my favorites.  Or listed as one of my most commonly visited web pages - thank you very much Yeoman Rand for so  _kindly_ pointing that out.  During the Alpha shift.  In front of the entire bridge.  When it was completely silent and not even Chekov and Sulu were talking.  

God, I've never seen Spock's face so goddamned green in my entire life, which really says some shit.

Fucking diplomacy.

On the bright side, though, the annual senior flag officer meetings are never boring.  Oh, you fucked your yeoman because of alien spores?  Yeah, well I had sex with my male first officer in a Klingon jail cell and goddamn was that a thrill.  Take that, newbie.  

Not that I'm proud to say that or anything... Of course not.

"The hell…?"  

Right; concentrate.  

On the situation at hand preferably.  Because there's this alien. And this alien just happens to be an alien diplomat, and this alien diplomat - all slimy and green and gross and well _, alien-y_ \- is pointing at me.  And well, let's just say that the look on his face is one I'm damn well acquainted with.  It isn't a good look.  Not at all.  It's a look I've seen way too many tim-

_Shit._

Now, I don’t usually regret things, but this I regret.  I don’t even remember what I said - I know I said it and I know the  _it_ in question was something really stupid, I just don’t remember the specifics.  So sue me - but they're pointing at me and they're looking at me with this expectant look, which is usually when things start to hit the fan.  Because this is usually the part where they start doing a joint pointing at and looking expectantly towards thing with me on end and Spock on the other, which is I guess what you’re supposed to do when demanding two people have public sex.  I’ve never actually been on that side of the story though, so I can’t be sure.  Maybe it’s, like, an unwritten, unofficial rule of voyeuristic sex.

 _Anyways_ ….this time…. This time is different.  But not good different, bad different.  _Very_ bad different.  Because this is where the story diverges and…well, in my defense this time isn’t really _that_ much different… Except that it kinda is.  Just a little, because this time they aren’t pointing at Spock _and_ me.

They’re pointing at Bones _and_ me.

_Fuck._

There's a moment of shock, where my jaw hits the floor and my eyes widen like saucers.  But that's before the adrenaline kicks in.  Before I can hear my blood ringing in my ears and feel my heart frantically  _tha-thumping_ in my chest like a malfunctioning engine.  Fuck.  My stomach is lurching, my gut having dropped long ago.  Its churning like crazy and my knees feel weak.  They're shaking, I'm so fucking...nervous?  Yeah, nervous.  

Like, I could very well be on the verge of a panic attack, nervous. Full on, passing out, deer in the headlights, hyperventilating panic attack.  My heart is thumping in my chest and all I can do is give a really stupid sounding "Uh."  

I feel like I'm back on Beta Psi.  Back when I'm being asked to make out with my very straight and very masculine and very attract - totally not attractive - First Officer for the first time in a show of openness.  Spock hadn't protested as much as I thought he would, as much as Bones would...

Oh.

Bones is gonna kill me.

 _Oh._  

He looks about ready to pop a cap in someone's ass.  Or hypo the shit out of them - though whether that someone is me or the diplomat still pointing at us is a little debatable at this point.  Knowing my luck, it’s probably me.

For a long while, No one moves.  Not even Bones.  We just kind of stand there and stare, as if doing that will make it all better.  As if not acknowledging the situation will make it disappear because  _holy shit_ this isn’t okay and  _holy shit_ I think I might be willing to give up sex forever if it means that I don’t have to do _this_ and _holy shit_ , yes, I do mean that with my whole heart and head and soul and everything because _holy shit_ this is so fucked up.

Just, _holy shit._

Which is most of the reason why we all just kind of stand there and why we all just kind of really hope that this is a big misunderstanding that can be chocked up to human perversion and nothing else.  Of course, that isn’t true and we all know it because we know we’re never _that_ lucky, but that doesn’t mean we can’t hope. 

The diplomat, who I guess is miffed that neither me nor Bones are just riveting with excitement to tear our pants off, turns to Uhura and lets out a bunch of strange clicks that someone somewhere decided to let constitute as a language.  The silence is broken into pieces and any hope of anything good is squashed and the tension seems to only thicken-

Shit.

Uhura looks about ready to bludgeon someone.  Probably me.  Not good.  Really, not good.  Especially not when she begins her translation and I'm not at all surprised when the words Captain Kirk, Doctor McCoy, and a very bitter, very annoyed and very deadly sounding version of the word anal sex end up the same sentence.

I’m hardly surprised, but hardly happy either.

Bones, however, I don't think is quite on par with me.  Oh, he looks mortified alright, but he looks mortified _and_ surprised. It’s all very telling - the look he’s giving me, the string of curses he's muttering, the hypo laying on his palm.  Suddenly, I'm really glad his hands aren't in reaching distance of my throat.

"Hey, come on Bones!  Don't look at me like that.  Y’know there are some people who would kill to be in your shoes, right?  Take Uhura, I can just feel the jealousy rolling off her."  In hindsight, winking at him probably wasn't the smartest thing.  Or dragging Uhura into this.  But I’ll give myself a little slack, considering I'm kinda in the middle of having a panic attack with a side dish of mental breakdown.  "Maybe the Federation will give us a medal?  Bravery in the face of kinky aliens and their voyeuristic tendencies.  Or better yet, maybe they'll give us that medal and  _name_   _it_ after us.  The Kirk-McCoy Medal; now that's a legacy." And if the laugh I give is a tad (a lot) more hysterical than usual and my smile a little more forced, then no one bothers to tell me.

"Goddamnit Jim, this isn’t one of your jokes and this isn’t what I signed up for!  I signed up for getting my brains boiled from a crack in the hull or being obliterated by Klingon Phaser-fire; not  _this_ _!_ "

"Just look at the bright side; sex is so much better than boiling brains and phaser-fire.  Am I right or am I right?"

“You’re an idiot, that’s what you are,” He mutters under his breath.

Ouch.

“Don’t be like that, Bones.  Not like I did it on purpose, y’know?”

"Oh, of course not," He doesn't sound particularly convinced; can’t imagine why.  "Not like you haven't done this before, haven't fucked up enough times to know what happens when you piss off aliens.  They want their just desserts and if they don't get it then it’s all of our asses on the line.  We’ll be pitted and roasted above a fire like some glorified pig, which given the options ain't lookin’ to be such a bad proposition!” He gives a sharp exhale of breath, “Just 'cuz forever loyal pointy-ears over there is okay with being dragged down by your stupidity, doesn't mean I am.  I'm a doctor, Jim, not a porn star for god's sake!"

Oh.

That’s-

Bad imagery.  Really, really bad imagery.  And I don’t think I’m the only one thinking it, if the way everyone just seems to pause, stand there and stare at him is anything to go by.  Even Spock seems to forget the whole 'pointy-ear' jab in favor of raising what might be a slightly disturbed and very confused eyebrow.

Not that Bones seems to notice.  Either that or he just doesn’t give a fuck, as he just keeps on talking.  "AIDs, STDs, herpes, hepatitis, Andorian shingles, Orion mud rats and god knows any other bacteria you've come into contact with; that's what happens when you have anal sex.  Your face swells up and you feel sluggish and you lose vision in your left eye - maybe your right dependin' on how lucky you are - and you feel kinda funny.  An' that's just the start.  Then your body begins to ache and before you know it every single one of your internal organs is a practical farm for bact-"

"Bones, Bones," I chuckle, but the sound is weak and airy even to me, never mind how it has to sound to everyone else.  It’s a nice match to the screaming inside my head, the thu-thumping of my heart. "You're exaggerating.  Again." 

He gives me a sharp look that screams  _shut up or die._ "I ain't done yet.  You may be the regional expert on anal sex and all, but I'm still the doctor here," There’s beat, as if he’s challenging me to say something.  Now, don’t get me wrong, I love me a good challenge, but hypo-sprays?  Not so much.  "As I was sayin', your body becomes a breeding ground to every bacteria known to man and then some.  An' that's before the fever sets in.  By that point it’s too late and all you can do is hog a bed in my sick bay and wait until your rotting body finally goes kapoot."  He turns to me with pursed lips and a very, very disgruntled expression.  "Now I'm done."

I… Wow.  I have no idea how to respond to that.  At all.

"Doctor McCoy, you're hysterics are unproductive and unhelpful."  Spock though – thank god for that pointy-eared bastard - does, "As chief medical officer, it is prudent that you calm your person and think as rationally as possible."  Bones’ mouth snaps open, probably to say some super snarky, sarcastic, and completely unhelpful remark, only for Spock to completely rebuff him by turning to Uhura.  His cheeks are a little green as he does so though, which has me slightly concerned.  "Tell the ambassador that I'm afraid I must intervene.  Being the First Officer it is my duty to ensure the Captain's safety and as such I insist that I be the one to participate in sating the Thylians need for punishment.  Doctor McCoy has no place nor..." He awkwardly coughs, but does not remove his hands from where they are clasped behind his back.  "...Experience in such matters." 

Uhura hesitates; she raises an eyebrow in that way only people who are subjected to long exposure to Spock tend to do.  A look passes between them, but it’s not a good look, and for a second I swear she’s about to say something.  I think we all think that, even Spock, but it never comes. Her eyes are still hesitant and her gaze twinkling with _something_ , but she doesn’t say anything, only swivels around to spit out a garbled sentence of clicks, vowels and syllables, complete with a pleasant smile and all.

There’s complete silence as she talks, not a word said from those of us behind her.  Nothing is said about the smile doesn't reach her eyes or the hand that keeps twitching with what’s probably the urge to punch something, and nothing is mentioned about the ears that are tipped green or the cheeks that are probably no better and nothing probably ever will be either.  When Uhura finishes, it’s with an air of confidence that isn’t entirely there and a stance that’s way too tense for comfort.  The diplomat raises a slimy finger to his chin in what I think (hope) is thought, seems to sort of nod his head in a rather obscure way.  He doesn't confirm, doesn't deny, he just kind of stands there.  He thinks about it.  

Seconds begin to feel like hours and minutes like days as the awkward tension builds and builds and builds until we’re all shifting our bodies and our eyes in nervous sweeps.  I’m pretty much avoiding the gaze of anyone with working vision, except the one time I look over just a little timidly and am completely unsurprised to find Bones pretty much glaring daggers at me-a 'how dare you pull me into one of your gay escapades' glare.  That’s okay though, because I'm fairly sure Spock is glaring the Vulcan equivalent of daggers at Bones in return, but I can’t be sure.  That would require making some sort of preliminary eye contact with Spock and that would just be too awkward, even for me.  Not that things aren’t already awkward, with this triangle of glares and me just sitting in the middle, thinking of how much I’d really like to not have sex with Bones right now.  Or ever, really.

_Wait…_

My stomach drops.

Like, really drops.

The diplomat turns to Uhura, the tension slowly beginning to crackle and break, falling to bits when he asks what I think is a question.  Uhura quickly answers, hopefully in a way that’s convincing-

No, stop it.  Stop it, Kirk, stop it!

This can’t… I can’t…

My mouth feels dry and it takes everything within me to not look over my shoulder at Spock in muted horror. I feel like an elephant is sitting on my chest and Godzilla is sitting on that elephant, the revelation hits me so hard.

Well, not so much a revelation but a realization.  A scary as shit realization.

I'm afraid of the diplomat not agreeing.  Which is really just a thinly veiled way of saying I'm afraid of not being able to have sex with Spock.  Because that's the inevitable outcome, right?  Sex with someone. Public humiliation at the hands of _someone_ \- whether it’s my CMO or my XO.  

My stomach feels like its twisting itself into a knot.  My gut feels unbearably cold and my skin clammy.  My intestines churn and I bet I could puke I'm  _that_ afraid and nervous and holy shit when did this happen?  When did I suddenly become okay with _this_ and how am I only realizing this now because this isn't okay and I shouldn't be okay with it because Spock is my First Officer and this...this isn't okay.  It's twisted.  And inappropriate, but mostly twisted.

Because that’s not cool, man.  Not cool for me to wish Not Bones, Not Bones, Not Bones when the outcome is still gonna be the same.  Same execution, different executioner.  And the fact that I'm apparently more comfortable with one executor over the other is…really, really concerning.  

Spock would call it irrational, I call it fucking terrifying.

And it is - terrifying, I mean.  And disturbing, how accustomed we’ve become to _this_ (whatever the hell _this_ is anyways) in the past year.  Like it’s some regular thing that everyone does, platonic friends that occasionally fuck – but only when alien diplomats tell us too.  As if it’s just one of those things that everyone does and it’s completely normal and cool and fine and great when it’s clearly not.  Okay?  It’s not fucking okay.  Not at all.  I mean, it used to be… kinda.  It’s just…it doesn't - didn't - bother me.  It should.  It really should, oh fuck, should it, but it doesn't.  I'm so comfortable with it and that in itself is frightening as fuck and I don't know what the fuck I'm supposed to think right now.

And thank god I don't have to, because before I can even begin to delve into that shit storm waiting to happen the diplomat nods his consent.  Bones lets out a sigh of relief and hey, that’s completely understandable.  I don’t blame him one bit for it.  Everyone else, though, suddenly seems a lot less tense and that’s slightly concerning.  I kinda blame them, just a little bit, for it.  Now, then there’s me.  And when I - who is still getting fucked up the ass for all intents and purposes - have to conscientiously stop myself from sighing in relief, that’s not fucking okay. The disconcerting way Spock isn't quite glaring daggers at Bones anymore isn't helping either.

Goddamned aliens.  

They make everything complicated.  Like platonic sex.  Or fingerfucking.  It’s usually a really simple, really hot thing to do, but apparently not when aliens are involved.  Definitely not when you have a Vulcan's fingers, soon to be dick, shoved up your ass and all you can think about is how fucking happy you are that it's not your CMO's fingers, it isn’t so easy.  

Even though technically, I'm pretty sure there shouldn't be anyone's fingers up there-

_Ah, Fuck._

My hands grapple at the rock I'm being pinned to as my teeth grit down in an effort to save a least a little of what dignity I have left.  Not that it matters much, as I arch into the hand pressed into my lower back and can't suppress the thought of  _more._

_More._

A small gasp falls from my lips and my eyes screw shut; I don't think anyone realizes how grateful I am that the rest of the away team had the decency to turn their backs.  Just because this is a regular occurrence doesn't mean I'm any more used to my crew, my friends and hell, what I'm pretty sure constitutes as  _my family_  being there, watching.  Doesn't help that I'm a captain goddammit, and the last thing a captain needs are his senior officers watching as he gets fucked into a rock - double whammy right there.  The fact that said captain just might have a few facial expressions that suggest punishment is the last thing this is, only makes it worse.  That is, if the muffled moans aren't telling them that already.

_Moremoremoremoremoremoremoremoremore._

I writhe a little under my Vul-Spock.  Spock's chest.  He's not my anything.  

"Ah.  Sp-Spock, right there.  I-uh-think.  I...I-"

Now that I think about it, Spock can totally shove his fingers up my ass anytime.

_Okay, stop that.  Stop it now._

Erm...

No, it’s perfectly natural.  Totally understandable.  I mean, yeah, the one time I brought it up with Uhura she threw a lunch tray at me and I'd be damned if Spock ever started bragging about his mad sex skills, but  _damn._  Before this weird arrangement of fucked up-ness started, I - and probably every other sane person - had thought the words Vulcan and sexy were automatic oxymorons.  I always thought it would be all stiff and awkward and robotic - _ah shit, right there.  Oh, fuck -_ not...not mad, sex god skills that I  _still_ can't quite wrap my head around.  Even after a year.  It's part of the reason why thinking while being finger-fucked isn't a good idea.  

Or really, while doing anything that involves my libido.

A moan resounds through the clearing _,_ like a truly, god-for-honest moan, and it takes a moment to realize just where it’s coming from.  Me.  Desperate sounding and borderline pathetic, I can't help but grit my teeth and seriously consider Uhura's idea of sewing my mouth shut.  Or even Bones' idea of just cutting off my tongue.  So many problems; such a simple, slightly violent and very messy solution.

Another moan is ripped from my throat. 

Damn.  It takes everything not to rock my hips back on Spock’s hand, because even I have _some_ pride left.  But hot damn, it’s not easy, because this feels way too good to be sex at gunpoint.  But that's how sex with Spock always is; way better than it actually should be.

My hands spasm against the rock and my back does this odd sort of arcing thing and-

And then something kinda funny happens.

Spock groans.  He's fingering me and he groans, a low rumble of baritone and damn if that doesn't go straight to my dick.  All smooth and all vibrating through his chest, this...I don't think...he's never done that before.

Fucking touch telepaths.  

Really, it’s just a thinly-veiled way of saying fuck Vulcans.  Kinda fitting, actually.  You’ll never read it in a textbook of course, not before Bones willingly gives up alcohol and hypos and sarcasm, but underneath all the repressive blankness and emotional apathy Vulcans are kinda kinky.  And horny.  They’re kinky, horny little fucks.

Or maybe it’s just the half human ones.

"Jim.”

Oh, fuck.  A moaning Vulcan – doesn’t get much hotter than that, let me tell you. Especially not when that moaning Vulcan has his head buried in your neck, mouthing at your pulse - and damn.

_"Jim."_

I ignore the shiver that totally does not roll down my back and pool at the base of my spine. It’s a breeze.  Totally a breeze.  On a desert planet.  With no notable wind currents. 

I should probably just shut up right about now, huh?  Yeah, probably.

Perfect timing too, as Spock removes his fingers and I can't help but gasp.  My mind is already teetering at the edge, which is some parts embarrassing and some parts mind-blowingly fantastic and some parts unimportant because I'm rambling so much it isn't even funny.  Which is kinda okay because...goddamn it's really hard to think when you're about to be fucked senseless.  Because that's what's happening here; this isn't the first time we've done this and because - fuck, what I was I saying?

Right; sex is sex and this whole thinking while fucking thing has to stop because it really just doesn't work out for either party and there's something else that I need to stop but I can't quite remember what that was again.

_Goddam._

Spock is mumbling something into my ear but I can't really tell what it is because my blood is ringing too loudly and my brain panging too haphazardly.  It's probably him asking for permission, because it’s not like we've done this enough times for him to know my position on it or anything.  I am and always will be the Federation's greatest bitch.  So I just nod and-

_Fuck._

The things I do for diplomacy.     

-x-X-x-

_**Captain's Quarters. February 17, 2263 - Six Terran hours later** _

_It's natural.  Really it is._

Except that it isn't.  

When a shuttle crash lands, most think it’s the initial impact that’s the real kicker, but it isn't.  Ask anyone at the academy and they'll tell you that.  They’ll tell that it’s in the aftermath that shit starts to get real.  Once the initial shock is gone and your brain isn't stuck with fragmented thoughts and fight-or-flight, that's when the pain and the panic and the pure, utter terror starts.  For me, the initial impact hits like an axe-wielding Klingon warrior with a Starship traveling at Warp 9 strapped to his back.  And, as with most things that involve Klingons (metaphorically or no), it hurts like a fucking bitch and leaves me wondering what the hell I did to piss the universe off.

The initial impact is bad.  The shock - the numb silence of just sitting there and staring at the ceiling because holy fuck _howwhenwherewhy_ did this even happen? - is even worse.  But the aftermath...

At first I pace, because that's what I do when I think.  There's science behind it, apparently physical activity increases brain activity or something like that.  Or that's what Spock told me and-

Everything always comes back to Spock. _Always._ Something he said or did or didn't say or didn't do and this... I need to stop this.

The initial impact is like being hit by Klingon strapped to a Starship.  The aftermath is like being crushed by a Gorilla riding an elephant and squeezed by an invisible hand that will never let go, like the life is dripping out of me and god, that's melodramatic but let me have my moment, okay?  A man needs his moment.  Especially now, when the pacing is over and I'm just sitting here, staring into emptiness, all lethargic and everything.  I wonder which is whiter, the ceiling and walls of my quarters or Spock’s skin.

…

Oh god, I’m not even five minutes and I still can’t stop thinking about Spock.  I don’t think I can do this.  I mean, technically, I already have done it but not really and wow, this is complicated.  Doesn’t help that this is probably one of the stupidest things I've ever fucking done and dear god does  _that_ say something.  I've done some pretty stupid shit in life - driving cars off cliffs, starting bar fights I can’t finish, fucking anything with a pulse - but this takes the goddamned cake.  

I'm attracted to Spock.  

_Don't be so damned melodramatic, this happens all the time.  Pike said it himself, space gets to you.  You start thinking things that aren't true and you start feeling things that aren't there and it'll pass.  Eventually._

True.  Maybe.  But probably not.  

It's all inevitable anyways.  I guess.  Which sucks, by the way, the idea of something like this being inevitable.  Even if it  _does_  make sense.  

Really, it does.

Consider this; Spock is attractive.  I trust Spock.  I enjoy his company. This weird twisted, relationship-thing we have, I like it.  He's intelligent and a riot when he's being sassy and a little endearing when he's worried and fucking terrifying when he's angry.  And when we've been put into the positions we've been put into, when we've seen each other in the ways others haven't it's only natural to begin to think of him in an intimate way.  Its only  _logical_ (heh) to find myself at least minutely drawn to him.

_Point of Rebuttal; Bones is attractive.  You trust Bones.  He's been elbow deep in your guts and up to his eyeballs in your blood and up to his neck in your paperwork and if that doesn't say brotherly love then nothing does; Starfleet paperwork is a bitch.  You socialize with him of your own volition, therefore you must enjoy his company to some degree.  He's a confidante and a friend and has seen you in more compromising situations than your own mother for Christ’s sake, and yet you're not exactly jumping to get inside his pants.  Which is funny, because according to the earlier parameters set that should be exactly what you're trying to do.  In fact, for all you seem to care, diplomatic relations could be going sour, a group of homicidal aliens could be threatening to blow the whole Federation sky-high and the only other alternate could be running to the nearest cliff and jumping, just hoping Chekov is quick enough to beam you up before…well, y’know, you go splat._

Okay...

Well, consider this; I am a tactile creature.  I am a  _male_ tactile creature - which pretty much just means that I really, really like sex.  I say it’s like coffee, can't function without it.  Bones says it's like alcohol, you can function without it but that doesn't mean it'll be easy - all semantics, really.  Anyways, that isn't the point.  The point is, if there's one thing getting a Captaincy is sure to do, it's kill any resemblance of a sex life ever; Starbases are pretty few and far in between, shore-leave even more so, I can’t exactly fuck anyone in my crew for pretty obvious reasons and despite our extensive relationship, my right hand can only do so much.  And for a tactile, sexual guy like me, those are the perfect conditions to get a little mixed up in the head.  It’s only natural that a sudden, drastic change in sexual patterns would naturally lead to a sudden, drastic change in my reactions to the few sexual encounters I do actually have.  Of course, throw in a complicated and strangely monogamous relationship-thing with my First Officer into that mix and all hell is only bound to break lose.  I bet if I were allowed my usual multiple sexual partners, rather than being unwittingly chained to one, this conversation would be moot because there would be no attraction to Spock.

_Point of Rebuttal; Last week Doctor Noel implied interest in pursuing romantic affiliations with you.  She is not 'fuck-ugly' as you say, she is highly intelligent and many crew members find her quirky humor to be refreshing, yet despite this no actions have been made to respond in kind._

Consider this; Oh... Well, she isn't my type...?

_Point of Rebuttal; Every type is your type._

Consider this; Well, you know what?  Speaking in second persons makes  _you-I-we_  sound bonkers.  And bonkers can't be trusted so...yeah.  

_Point of Rebuttal; Perhaps the use of a second person point of view isn't to denote a sign of insanity, but rather as a way to achieve your First Officer's mindset.  You are at odds with yourself and therefore are trying to imitate his use of logic as the opposing party to your denial.  Even when he's not here, he is._

I...shit.

_Point of Rebuttal: You are truly and undeniably attracted to your First Officer.  Deal with it._

So.  Fucking.  Screwed.

-x-X-x-

_**Cirrius XI. May 2, 2263** _

He looks over at me from his spot in the clearing, brown eyes peering with what I think is the beginnings of irritation and maybe a tiny, tiny, _tiny_ bit of amusement.  Maybe. "Are you attempting to be discreet, Captain?"  

I shrug as I lean my shoulder against the closest tree, relishing in the shade of the flora and the apple Uhura had testily thrown my way earlier this morning.  "Nah, not really.  Just watching my Vulcan First Officer in his indigenous habitat." It earns me a raised eyebrow, which never seems to be a terrible thing as I smirk around the chunks of apple I'm chewing on.  

And yes, it is chewing and no, it's not gnawing, gnashing, chomping, or smashing.  Bones just doesn't know what fine dining is when he sees it.  

"This is hardly my indigenous habitat.  Perhaps during your next physical you should consult Dr. McCoy concerning your...rather lackluster mental facilities.  I am not sure I feel comfortable serving under a Captain who is unable to ascertain the difference between a dessert and a tropical rain forest." His voice carries this really sharp edge he only gets when he's in an especially snarky, the perfect picture of Vulcan contemptibility.

I pull away from the tree, hand still resting against it though, only to plop down at its base.  Of course it doesn’t help the whole Vulcan contemptibility thing, when Spock realizes that I’m probably not going to be leaving anytime soon.  Stiffly, he goes back to work – a loaded word for what is essentially bending over a pink and purple spotted plant with a tricorder.  It’s interesting nonetheless, though, watching him go from flower to flower and plant to plant and bug to bug like it’s the most fascinating thing ever.  Or you know, as fascinating as something can possibly be to a Vulcan.  

A couple minutes of this, of me watching Spock and Spock ignoring me, pass.  Then ten.  Then fifteen.  Somehow, I’ve managed to stay sitting by the tree, but only after kicking my feet up on a nearby stump and having left that apple to the wonders of biodegradability.  It’s surprisingly nice, this whole sitting around, doing nothing thing after a year of pure paperwork and emergency situations.  First time in forever I’ve had to relax, to sit and do nothing and just soak it in and my god, it’s so fantastic.

A sound that strangely resembles a sigh floats across the clearing, causing my graze to slowly flick towards Spock.  He’s still hunched over some plant species, still with that tricorder and who am I kidding?  A true Vulcan does notsigh.  Ever. 

Right?

Right.

"If you have nothing specific to discuss,” God, that tone.  Especially snarky. That look too, I swear sometimes that it could kill, “I request that you return to the city with the rest of the crew.  I am, as you can hopefully see, otherwise preoccupied and will not entertain your childish whims."

And it’s exactly why - that look and that tone – that I lazily smile and give an amazingly charming wink.  "Why, am I distracting you?"

"Hardly."

Almost as soon as the words leave his mouth, he realizes his mistake.

“Good then, it’s decided.”

 _Ding, ding, ding_.  Jim: one.  Stick-up-the-ass, fun-sucking Vulcan of doom: zero. 

 _Too bad; so sad_ , I muse as I lean my neck against my laced together hands, raised above my head and everything.  Now this is what I'm talking about when I request for shore-leave; a nice, pretty planet with tree stumps for leg rests and towering plants for shade and pretty clearings for a backdrop.  No prickish aliens, no horny diplomats, no awkward fucks, none of that. 

Plus, the clearing really is pretty.  More than pretty, really, and more than just ‘nice’ too.  It’s actually kinda gorgeous, borderline fucking beautiful, all in all.  ‘Cause you see, all this sunlight is filtering in through tree branches and the way the grass and flowers light up because of it and the way it makes them gleam is just a little breathtaking.  Droplets of water are falling down green stems and leaves, dripping off petals of pink and white and blue and yellow and dropping from colors I’ve probably never seen before.  Colors that have no Terran names, that I probably didn’t even know I’ve never seen before until now and isn’t that a mind-fuck?  That was rhetorical, don’t answer.  The grass is rippling in the breeze - which is really nice, by the way, after six months of desert planets and gigantic, psychopathic scorpions on our asses - and I bet you I could fall asleep to the sound of leaves swaying back and forth.  

The temperature is perfect, not too hot or too cold and not too wet or too dry like most planets.  I’ve always thought it was impossible, because finding a planet with a happy medium of hot and cold has always seemed impossible and actually getting permissions to land on the few we did find really was impossible.  But then there’s this planet – Cirrius something or another – with the kind of weather that would send most Starfleet Captains into a jealous hissy fit (it’s like the icing on top of a multi-layer cake, cherry on top and everything) and that just makes it even better.  

Lazily, my gaze wanders through the clearing before settling on Spock with what I’m sure is a contemplative gleam.  You would think that in a clearing like this he would look out of place in all his awkward glory, but he doesn't.  The sun kinda does this shimmer-y thing off his skin that makes it look whiter than ever, but at the same time makes his eyes glimmer with so much swirling depth that I can see them from all the way from where I'm sitting.  Of course he still looks as uncomfortable as ever with his shoulders as tense as they are and back as rim-rod straight as it is, but that's nothing new.  And yeah, his bowl haircut doesn't do him any favors, but if the rumor-mill has any credibility then taking off his shirt more than makes up for it.  Which, I suddenly realize, is odd that I only know that through second-hand accounts.  We've had sex, gone on away missions, sparred, and been stuck in sickbay god knows how many times together, but I still don‘t think I’ve ever seen Spock without a shirt.  He’s seen me, but I’ve never seen him, which sounds like quite the double standard to me.

Hm, fascinating.

Er… never mind, not fascinating.  Not really.  More like, bad thoughts.  Thoughts I’ve been avoiding for the past two weeks because they jumble together into incoherent scrambles of _ToocomfortablePlatonicFuck-buddies?  No.  No. But -  No.  Why -  No._   Thanks a lot brain.  Because here I was, having a nice time not thinking about any of that and then you just have to bring it up.  You’re a true pal, really.

But hey, the clearing is still nice.  And the view  _in_  the clearing is really, really ni-

Um...

Yeah, the clearing's nice.  Real pretty, all those flowers and crap.

"Why  _are_  you here, Captain?"

"What, don't like the company?" I automatically tease, even despite the inner mini-meltdown.  It’s quite impressive, actually.  Especially when the look I get suggests the reply I'm about to get is gonna be pretty scathing.  And I'm not wrong, either.  

"If I am not mistaken, the word company usually refers to positive association with other communicative beings; with that definition your presence is by no means indicative of 'company'.  I ask that you consider your diction more carefully in the future, perhaps it would curb the number of diplomatic efforts gone awry," He says while pausing to shoot me a distinctively pointed look.

"See - that's not fair," I point out with an equally sharp and pointy look of my own.  Two can play at this game.  "Some of those aren't my fault.  'Cuz this could be me but there are several times where we've been chased off cliffs and cornered by phasers because of a certain person's pointy ear-"

"My physiology is not something that can merely be changed and therefore merits no blame on my part.  Your sense of tact however, leaves much to be desired."

I throw him a put out expression which has to look absolutely ridiculous on me, but it does what it’s supposed to, if the way Spock flicks his gaze momentarily upwards says anything.  "I wasn't done yet, y'know?  'Cuz it's not just you, its Bones too.  Don't you remember Beta-768?  Makes me real glad Terrans have gotten past the whole spears and bows and arrows phase."

"Perhaps you forget that while it may be true that Dr. McCoy did initiate the violent response, as I, and many others, recall it was you who initially perturbed the natives.  The doctor's following statement was simply, as Nyota called it, 'the straw that broke the camel's back'"

Okay, he's got me there.

Not that I'll ever tell him that because I’m Captain James T. _Kirk_ and that’s just not a very Kirk thing to do.  Even when we're wrong, we're right.  "Well, doesn't mean I was intentionally pissing them off."

"Captain," He drones in a voice that screams sarcasm and his usual dry humor.  "I fail to see how depicting yourself smashing their head priest's head into a stone altar can in any way be interrupted as anything but intentionally provoking."

"Whoa, whoa, whoa!  You can't call something that's within the sanctity of my own head to be intentionally provoking, okay?  I mean, come on, how was I supposed to now they were full-blown telepaths?"

"Perhaps by reading the cultural brief Lieutenant Uhura had spent two weeks compiling." 

Again, he has me there.  But, again, Kirks; we’re always, always, _always_ right.  

Spock lifts an eyebrow at the lack of verbal response and boy does that say wonders.  It’s a wild myriad composed of the words  _Idiot-Why have I not filed for a transfer yet?-Stupid-Moronic-What was Starfleet thinking?-I am so much smarter than you-This isn't even funny._ Thanks Spock, love you too.  "I digress." I roll my eyes and throw my hands in lazy surrender, neither actions earning anything more than a tilt of the head.  "I mean, you _did_ say it yourself, physiological traits can't be changed just because you want them to.  Evolution doesn't work like that, baby,” The wink I toss in Spock’s direction may or may not have been a good idea.  Probably not. “It ain't my fault I don't have that weird Vulcan telepathic voodoo that lets me shield my mind and shit - and  _don't_  give me that look -" It's his _I'm not impressed_  look, which means two raised eyebrows instead of one and a pursing of the lips that is just enough to be a pursing but not enough so he can't deny it if called out.  "Because your bullshit is not gonna cut it this time.  You were totally thinking the same thing I was."

"Hardly."

"He called us gay, Spock.  Gay lovers."  And now it’s my turn to quirk an eyebrow and speak in that deadpanned voice and give him that almost glower, which is only marginally as satisfying as I thought it’d be.  Of course, most of that is because it really makes think that I need to start spending more time in the rec rooms and less time in Spock's quarters.  No wonder half my crew and almost every non-Federation alien we've meet thinks we've hooked up.  

"I still fail to understand the human notion that being mistaken as a homosexual denotes personal insult.  It is a misunderstanding, of course, but should not be an insult."

I shrug and throw him a lazy smirk, "Depends on who you talk to; for most its somethin' about masculinity and testosterone and shit like that.  But for me?   It wasn’t what he said but the way he said it, like he was from the nineteenth century and homosexuals should be burned at the stake.  Fact that he was eyeing Uhura like a cheap hooker didn’t help his case either."  

There’s a pause for a moment, where Spock looks at me all inquisitively before he sharply goes back to his tricorder.  There isn’t even a nod, or an acknowledgement that I said something.  Instead, the subject is simply dropped without a word, completely forgotten in a way that’s part insulting but part refreshing.  Insulting, because...well, insulting for obvious reasons.  Refreshing, because talking and communicating take effort that I really don’t feel like exerting.  It’s a bit like bein’ back in Riverside; lounging on the hillside, waiting for the sun to go down and the crickets to start chirping.  Maybe the plants are a little different and maybe the animals a tad unusual and maybe the company's a tad better and the view a lot nicer, but the feeling is the same.  

It’s the feeling of simply…being.

I pause to let out a heavy breath of air, as I watch Spock carefully move through the grass.  He's completely ignoring me, even though I’m practically stalking him with my eyes, but I guess that's okay.  I don't mind too much.  A lot of people think watching Spock work would be boring, but it’s not. He's so enraptured and fascinated and it’s like he's in his own little world and it's odd and it’s cool and a little endea-

Never mind.  

Not endearing, not at all.

_More like sexy._

Well… he _does_ keep bending over and _damn,_ he has a nice ass.  Doesn't help that regulation pants have always been a bit too tight.  Or that my brain is pretty much hard-wired to seek out fine asses and stare until I get laid, punched or both and-

"Captain?"

_Shit._

Spock is staring at me and I’m…well, I was staring at his ass.  Or that really pretty flower conveniently by his ass.  Yeah, that's it.  Completely normal.

"You never gave an answer to my query," He says with an eyebrow lifted with what I think is really faint humor.  Well, that's just fucking great.  

"And which query would that be, Mr. Spock?"  That's right, act natural; captains stare at their XO's asses all the time, right?  

Right!

"Why are you here when there are activities much more suitable to your usual patterns within the city?"

"Oh."  Well….okay.  Can't say I was particularly expecting that, but…phew.  Just, phew.  So many ways that conversation could’ve gone and thank god _Why are you staring at my ass_  and  _Captain, could you please refrain from visually fucking me_ weren’t one of themand…and dear god this has to stop.  Like, right now preferably. 

On second thought, how about tomorrow?  When I have access to Bones’ stash of liquor and everything, ‘cause let’s be honest all of this is his fault anyways.  If he hadn't been on that fucking away mission and hadn't been the one that diplomat or ambassador or whatever the hell he was had pointed at then none of this would’ve happened.  I wouldn't have realized just how fucked up me and Spock's relationship was and I wouldn't have realized that _holy shit_ I’m totally attracted to this guy and then none of us would be where we are and that wouldn’t necessarily be a bad thing.  I'd stare at Spock’s ass without realizing it and that’d be okay because ignorance is bliss.  I wouldn't be flustered like I am now and Spock wouldn't stare at me with his eyebrows all raised and shit and I wouldn't squirm because the look he's giving me isn’t helping things.  It’s the kind of look that could turn any straight man gay in a heartbeat and well, yeah…let’s just say my sexuality has never been exactly rim-rod.  

_Goddamn it._

What was the question again?

"Are you feeling unwell, Captain?" Spock asks when I say exactly that, scratching my head and scrunching my eyes and trying really hard to ignore the light blush on my checks.

"Nah, just a little distracted.  Nothing unusual, right?  So...tell me that question again." Based on the look he gives me in return, if Spock were human I imagine he would've sighed.  Then again, if he were human I also imagine that there are a lot of things he would’ve done to, said to, and directed towards me by this point.  Like, telling me to fuck off on a daily basis and to go to hell on an hourly basis.  He also probably would’ve hit me a few more times than he already has and he might have even entertained the idea of actually, literally throwing me out the airlock far more than he already does.

Guess it’s a good thing Spock isn’t human.  All for my sake, I mean, because he’s never actually done any of that, thank god.  He wants to, but doesn’t - mostly because a lot of that shit would break code, but a little bit just because he’s Spock.  So instead he just looks at me.  Of course, it’s done in a way that could be skepticism but then again could be irritation but could also could be humor mixed with I'm-about-to-smash-your-head-into-a-wall-if-you-don't-stop-being-such-a-fucking-idiot.  It's all a bit ambiguous when it comes to Spock.  "Wait, so you, Mr. the-safety-of-the-captain-supersedes-the-universe-itself, is wondering why I'm _not_ getting trashed and wasted and why I’m _not_ fucking some hot alien chick who probably has, like, twelve STDs and _not_ risking getting skinned alive by Bones tomorrow morning for whining about a hangover?" I ask with a chuckle after he finally repeated that damned question.

"Although I do not doubt Dr. McCoy's more sadistic capabilities, if he were ever inclined to do such a thing as skin you alive then I believe he would have done so already."

Smart ass.

"Okay, okay fair enough.  If you must know though, I was bored."

"Fascinating," He murmurs more to himself than to me, even though I can still hear him and that kinda makes me uncomfortable.  Uncomfortable because he’s pretty much using the same exact word to describe me, a science experiment, and those two unnamed ensigns we found making out one day in engineering during Gamma shift.  And not only is it uncomfortable, it’s downright weird.  And disconcerting.  And…ew.  "I was under the impression that you usually found yourself in the company of Dr. McCoy when in such a state."

I shrug and give him a sheepish smile.  "He's still kinda pissed about the whole Thylian thing.  Damn bastard almost hypoed me to death day after, y'know?  Vulcan bacteria, my ass."

"Dr. McCoy is correct, Captain-"

"Jim."

"Dr. McCoy is correct,  _Jim_ , the Vulcan body does tend to harbor several bacteria deemed deadly to the human body."

"God, Spock, aren’t you supposed to be on _my_ side, here?” And no, I am not pouting.  Not at all.  No pouting going on here at all.  Not even a little.

"I am hardly on anyone's side, Jim.  I am merely stating facts."

I don't answer immediately, only snort and roll my eyes.  "You're a real bastard sometimes, you know that?"

"I can assure you my mother was fully wed-"

" _God_ , you're stubborn." 

"-When she and my father took part-"

"Okay!  That's enough stop right there!"

"-In copulation."

"La, la, la, I can't hear you!" Except I totally can, because images.  Bad, bad, bad images.  And not even in the imagining Spock fucking me senseless – _oh god,_ there I go again - kind of way, which was more of a goddammit-this-isn't-the-place-for-that kind of bad.  No, this is Sarek fuc-

Never mind.  

Never – _fucking -_ mind.  

"Jim."

I look up with wide eyes, only to see Spock looking at me like I'm an idiot and a five year-old all in one.  It’s a total fallacy, I tell you, and the fact that my fingers might be shoved in my ears is a coincidence.  Especially since it's still being done in a super macho, manly way.  Kinda.  Sorta.

I'm glad Bones isn't here. 

"You are acting immature."

"Hey, not my fault I can't ever look at your dad the same again!  I mean, did you _really_  have to bring that up?  Y'know what's gonna happen, right?  I'll be talking to your father one day, doing some important negotiation and shit and then I won't be able to do anything but think about him and weird Vulcan sex because I'm human and that's what we do and – damnit!  I’m thinking about it. "  

"Humans make it a habit of thinking of 'weird Vulcan sex' during diplomatic negotiations?"

_Only when it involves you.  And me.  And those really tight regulation pants of yours.  And those fucking lickable, pointy ears._

"That's not what I meant and you know it”, Is what I say instead.  "It's like when you think about your grandparents doing it - which,  _oh my god,_ I'm so thinking about that right now. No thanks to you, by the way.  It's not cool man, 'cuz I'm a visual person and dear  _god_ , sometimes I really hate you."

An eyebrow is raised in my direction, and if I’m reading it correctly it says something to the effect of me being a distraction.  Not that that should be any excuse for Spock, the pretentious asshole that he is, to just turn back to his tricorder like he does.  And it sure as hell doesn’t give him an excuse for ignoring me.  Especially when all he says is a barely spoken but definitely there, "I highly doubt that," muttered in a way that almost goes unnoticed by me.

 _Almost._  

Of course he’s probably right, anyways – almost unnoticed or no - because Spock’s always fucking right, but still.  It’s the principle of the matter.  Even if he really is always right. 

_The fact that his ass is as fine as it is definitely helps._

Okay…totally uncalled for.  

_The logic.  It's totally the logic.  He's a logical guy, so he's usually right._

Right...it’s totally the logic.  Solid.

_But the ass so helps._

I give up.  

I’m almost tempted to throw my hands, because really?  _Really?_ It's bad enough to have a mutinous body - eyes that linger, hands that just  _happen_  to stray, knees that buckle, the list is never-ending – but a mutinous brain?  That’s, like, suicidal. And it's not like getting rid of the mutinous little bastard is exactly an option because hey, I happen to actually like having cognitive abilities.  Weird how that works, huh?  

The bush to my right rustles and-

"Hey there, little guy?" I half say, half ask as my pitch unintentionally tilts into a question.  It’s directed towards this little guy, this tiny, furry fluff-ball that wondered out from under that bush.  He’s slow and careful, as he wonders in the direction of my folded up knees, nose crinkling as he sniffs at blades of grass and swaying flowers.  My eyes are trained solely on him, nothing coming even close to grasp my attention (not even Spock’s ass) as I rest my elbows on my thighs.  He seems to be some sort of mammal which might be a mouse, might be a chinchilla, but then again might be a guinea pig.  Or maybe it’s all three.  Or maybe none of them at all.  Who knows, on planets like this?  I know I don’t, because the only thing I really do know is that he’s fuzziest, cutest looking fur ball ever and Uhura and Chekov would probably be having a field day right about now.  

Not that I could blame them, because with the way the little guy is scratching at his mouth with these tiny, little paws and munching on leaves with his big, buck teeth, who wouldn't be having a field day?

Probably Spock.  Not that that’s some big surprise or anything, especially since Spock seems to be really rocking the variable of the common denominator here.  Who’s a heartless bastard?  Spock.  Who’s an absolute fun sucker?  Spock.  Who really needs to get a new haircut?  Spock. Who’s the only reason I haven’t shoved this furry little guy in my pocket to take him home and hug him and squeeze him and call his name George? Spock.  Who really needs that pole removed from his ass?  Spock.  Definitely Spock. 

Oh, and would you look at that?  Spock’s shooting me cautious looks.  Again.

I hold out my hand towards the guinea pig thing, cautious as I watch him sniff my skin because ass-wrenching poles and cautious looks aside, Spock’s right.  Me and animals don’t get along, like, at all.  This is especially true for me and non-terran animals, like with the raptor-things on Asal V.   Or the snakes-with-six-legs things on Sariel IIIV (Goddamn, were those scary shits).  Or the dinosaur/gryphon/lion things on that one planet with the screeching bats, because god forbid should we forget that one.

Okay…so maybe he has a point.  And maybe the look he’s throwing me ("You are the definition of an idiot") isn’t completely unwarranted and maybe if it says anything at all (which it does), then maybe it’s something I should listen to.  

Maybe…because maybe’s a really relative word.  And _should_ doesn’t mean _have to_ and I _am_ a Kirk and…and aw, fuck it.

“Captain...” I ignore the warning in his voice, because caution is overrated and paranoia is so last year.  "Given the negative statistics associated with contact between you and non-Terran creatures, I do not think your intended actions would be wise," He continues as I bring out the tricorder from my hip and flick it on with a whirr, watching as the mouse-thing begins curiously sniffing my shoe. 

My lips curl into a smirk before I open my lips to say, "Oh, come on Spock, does that look like the face of a killer to you?"  Of course, it’s a moot point anyway, considering I'm already scanning the fuzz-ball with a tricorder.  The plastic module passes over its body in broad, wide sweeps of motion, the whirring a constant hum in the background that was perfect for the chirping and delicate clicks already surrounding us. I pass the tricorder over the little guy one – two – three - four times, big brown eyes cautiously following my noisy movements and…huh, would you look at that?  Thirty seconds in and no imminent death.

Suck on that, Spock.

Er...

Okay.  Bad choice of words, again.  Even worse mental images, _a – fucking - gain._  Well, depending on your definition of 'worse' because...

Never mind.  Stopping there.  Wait, what were we talking about again?

_Beep.  Beep.  Beep._

Oh right, non-Terran animals.  Getting bit in the ass.  Suck on that.  Spock bei-

_"Ow!"_

My hand feels like it's on fire, my eyes quickly snapping down to it and - holy shit.  I spoke way too fucking soon.

_Motherfucker._

It's bleeding.  My hand is bleeding and I swear to god that's a bite mark if I've ever seen one and  _that little fucker!_   It's gone, of course it is, probably scared shitless by the tricorder’s beeping and my jerky movements and in any other situation I might feel a little bad, this poor animal scared off by a terran-made object…but that would require a situation where I wasn’t fucking bit, so yeah… Have I mentioned that this really fucking hurts yet?  Because it does, which means I have no sympathy.  I think it might be throbbing, is it supposed to do that?  Then again, it also feels like my hand’s on fucking fire or something and it’s only spreading and there goes any dreams of me ever getting a guinea pig for a pet.  Probably won’t ever be able to look at them again, them, mice or chinchillas, without thinking about satanic spawns or demon fur balls - love you too, universe.

"Spock to MCcoy."

_Click._

Somewhere in between the universe ruining my view of adorably furry rodents and now, Spock has taken to kneeling next to me - one hand holding a communicator to his lips and his other hand resting on my shoulder.  A breath of static hisses from the comm… then nothing.  No answer.  Not even an acknowledgement that the transmission has been received.  Great, just fucking great.

He tries again, same outcome.  

My breathing is rapidly moving towards the sphere of hyperventilation, overshooting mild panic attack by a mile.  Although whether all this is because of the adrenaline or because it actually really does hurt that much, I don't know and maybe never will.  It could be both, or neither.

"Spock to McCoy."  

Holy crap Bones, why are you choosing now not to answer?  Talk about shitty timing. 

I grit my teeth and try flexing my hand, maybe that will help.  It doesn't.  If anything it only makes it bleed more and now the pain is shooting up into my wrist and yeah, there's a reason I never became a doctor.  A really, really good reason.  The fact that verbalizing that reason seems borderline impossible is so irrelevant.

A spike of pain runs through my arm.  Okay, so yeah, Spock was right.  So, so right.  The blood covering my aching, hurting, on-fucking-fire hand is proof of that.  Damn bastard is probably doing the equivalent to a Vulcan smirk right now.

“Spock to McCoy, I repeat Spock to McCoy.” His voice is starting to sound impatient, the edges tinted with the tenseness of irritation and exasperation.  Especially when his comm clicks again, gives static again and then goes silent again.  

Chances are, Bones is already passed out by now.  If we're lucky he'll have passed out in his quarters, if not he'll be in the middle of the street with nothing but his boxers and a sombrero on.  If it’s somewhere in between, at a stage of kinda lucky and but not-quite-black-cat level unlucky, then he'll probably be on the middle of the bridge, sharpie mustache curtsey of Chekov and Chapel and all.  With our luck though, it'll be the street - because nothing quite says diplomacy like a drunken senior officer. "Spock, if he hasn't picked up yet then he probably isn't gonna answer.” 

Personally, I choose to ignore the glare I get in response.  It’s for the best, since opening my mouth seems to result in nothing but particularly unmanly yelps and not-ignoring a Spock patented glare always – _always –_ leads to a snarky remark.  It’s best for everyone, really, since rule of thumb says a glaring Spock is a terrifying Spock anyways.  Rule of thumb is never wrong. 

Never.

Maybe it would be if he were doing his odd, Vulcan little non-glare thing (which, according to rule of thumb is hot.  Not terrifying, just incredibly, distractingly hot), but this isn’t that.  Oh no, this is a full out, human,  _shut the fuck up, you absolute moron_  glare that somehow happens to be in a caliber of its own.  The type I'd expect from Bones or Uhura - not my emotionally repressive,  _Vulcans do not glare, Jim_ , First Officer. 

“And besides, it’s just one, little bite Spock.  I’ve had worse.”

Not that that does anything to placate him, anyways.  “Forgive me if I do not trust your judgment, Captain.” 

Ouch.

He tries the comm again.  But it doesn’t go through – again – and his glare deepens – again - and it kinda looks like he’s wondering whether he should ‘accidentally’ throw me out the air lock later or just throw me across the clearing now.  I wouldn’t be surprised with either, to be honest.

“Y’know, it doesn’t hurt so much anymore,” I poke at the bite mark and shrug.  It looks a bit worse for wear, sure - a little too purple, maybe and the blood's a bit much - and perhaps it'll be sore for a few days and a dermal regenerator sure couldn't hurt, but I think it's safe to say I won't be doing any dying anytime soon.  In fact-

"Does it feel numb?"

The first sign that something is wrong is when I realize Spock isn't glaring anymore.  The second when I realize he's given up on trying to comm Bones and the third...is that worry?

I think it is.

"Um, yeah.  A little actually, that's good, right?"  The look on my First's face says otherwise.  Shit.  "It doesn't hurt anymore and pain is evolution's way of saying 'Stop what you're doing right fucking now before you kill yourself, stupid', so that  _has_  to be good... Right?"

"Extreme pain followed by numbness," He pauses slightly as he reaches across me to pick up my forgotten tricorder, thrown on the ground sometime before the shock had settled in, "Can often times be the consequence of a venomous bite."

Oh, you have  _got_  to be kidding me.

"Your tricorder readings seem to support this conclusion.

 _Fucking_ kidding me, actually.  You have got to be fucking kidding me.

"Ah, shit."

"Indeed.  However, whether or not the venom is fatal remains to be seen."

It probably is.  Wouldn't be a proper James T. Kirk fuck-up if it wasn't fatal venom.  

"Yeah, well let's not wait to find out, kay?" My voice is surprisingly calm, and for that I’m quite proud.

"I fully agree, Captain. It is imperative that it be removed as quickly as possible."

Uh…Spock?  Did I…miss something?  Something that connected the dots of removing venom and taking off your shirt?  Is that a thing now?  Stripping in the throes of crisis, because I’m sure the admirals will love it.  No, but seriously, it’s like Spock has suddenly decided that taking his shirt off is the solution to all the world’s problems and not that I’m complaining, but how does this help the whole fatal venom thing?  It doesn’t.  Except when…oh.  _Oh._ Except when that shirt is being used as a tourniquet around my upper arm.

It kinda hurts and it’s insanely tight, but the view of Spock in that black undershirt definitely makes up for.  Goddamn, it’s tight.  And it does wonders for Spock's body in ways his science blues could never dream of.  And…and oh my god this is so _not_ the time.  Even if this absolutely has to be against regulation.  Somehow, someway -  there's no way Starfleet endorses this.

 

 

 

Dear god, _still_ not the time for this.

Spock finishes tying the tourniquet, his fingers lingering on my upper arm as he finishes. I swallow, more of a gulp than anything, as they brush my skin and then – they’re gone. They’re there only a second before dipping down to take my hand and prompting a really loud, really flustered, really frantic and kinda hysterical outburst of, "What are you doing?!" as I yank my hand away.

The looks he gives me in response could be hesitance, but then again could be homicidal restraint.  Never can tell with them Vulcans.  "I intend to remove the venom."

"And fondling my hand as you practice your striptease helps you how?" And if my voice is a bit high pitched and a tad squeakier than usual, then Spock doesn't seem to notice.  Then again, pitch and squeakiness aren’t things you usually notice when you’re…blushing?

Yep.  Definitely blushing.

Bright green and all over his cheeks, something I'd imagine would be at least a little cute if I weren't too busy with trying not to possibly die in the most ridiculous, anti-climactic way possible.  (Okay, second to most.  Once heard a story about a guy who was crushed to death by a bridge - now, that takes the cake).  Though why _he’s_ blushing-

Oh.

_Oh._

And that’s when it hits me, why he's blushing.  Survival 101 - snake bites.  "Oh."  My face is probably just as bright as Spock's, except mine is bright red and I’m sure together we look like a walking, breathing Christmas, huh?  "Um...I meant I can do it, right?  You don't have to.  How hard can it be, it's just sucking the venom out," I give a weak grin, like that's supposed to make this situation any better.  "God knows I have enough practice with that first part, just replace venom with...er, you get the point."  Except that judging by his expression, I don't think he does.  And I'm not explaining.  "Sorry, bad metaphors are bad."

Spock throws a not-glare in my direction, but with his blush and how goddamned worried he looks it ends up more endearing than anything.  Except this is so not the time for endearing.  Or anything that isn’t fear and panic.  "I would not suggest that, Captain, it can be dangerous if one has never tried it before.  If the venom is accidentally swallowed..." He trails off for a moment, but the look he gives me says everything.  "As a science officer, training in situations such as these is not only pertinent but required.  It is only logical that you should let me extract the venom."

Logical.  Heh.

And his argument sounds convincing, I can't deny that, but there are other factors to consider.  Like, the fact that I am totally attracted to Spock and that maybe having his lips on my body (oh god, out of the gutter.  Get out of the gutter, he's right next to you and almost touching and can you say touch telepath?) isn't a good idea.  Or a logical one, either.  The whole touch telelpath thing seems to be only one of the many complications that’s quickly growing into a stack of considerations I've taken to calling 'Proof the Universe Hates Me'.

"Eh, I guess you're right."

Shit.

_Shitshitshitshit._

This isn’t going to end well.

_Shit!_

I know that much as I’m sitting here, waiting.  But it still doesn't stop me from holding my hand out.  Still doesn't stop me from thinking Bones might be right; there’s not a single trace of self-preservation in me.  

"I will attempt to be quick," He says, but doesn't even have the decency of looking bashful or even trying to avoid eye contact.  Y'know what normal people do when resorting to erotically sucking on your best friend's hand to save their life.  Even if you've had sex with that best friend, like, a good couple hundred times.

It's all in the semantics, really.  And manners.  And common courtesy. 

"Then-" But before I can finish, his mouth is on my hand and-

_Oh._

I'll give him this, he's professional about it.  Aside from the tinniest hint of disgust at the taste of my blood, his face is blank as ever as he sucks (Stop it.  Bad Kirk, bad) then spits, just like how they say to do it.  Of course, it's hard to concentrate, when my head is so light and I'm not sure if that's because of the poison - can poison even do that? - or if it’s because of…well, more obvious reasons.  Personally, I think it’s a little of both.  Just sayin’.

My eyes roam, looking anywhere but Spock as my bottom lip wedges itself in between my teeth and my brow furrows with concentration.  I'm trying to be professional, I really am, but it's hard.  Really, really hard.  Pun terribly, irrevocably, and shamelessly intended.  Because if nothing else, even if I get nothing else out of this, I’m at least getting a pun, goddamnit!   It’s maybe the only thing keeping me sane right now, as I have to endure what he's doing to my hand and, even worse, have to endure pointedly not thinking about it - hello,  _touch-fucking-telepath –_ because apparently not even my own head is still mine. 

Whatever, its moot point.  Mostly because, if I do say so myself, I think I'm doing a pretty good job of the whole self-control thing.  I haven't been decked yet, so that has to be a good sign.

 _Hmmm_ , I hum as my gaze skims past a head of black.  I wonder if Spock would show me how to meditate.  How to, like, center myself and clear my head a little and all that shit.  I’ve always wondered how Spock keeps his mind so goddamned blank - _oh, that suck was harder than the others, oh god.  Ohgodohgodohgodohgod –_ and right now…right now I could sure as hell use some blank focus.  Especially now that my mind is spinning on mantras of _touchtelepathtouchtelepathtouchtelelpath_ and _ohgodohgodohgodohgod,_ as if those are the only two things that are keeping my mind from straying.  Straying to thoughts which revolve around Spock and that mouth and how great Spock is with that mouth and how great that mouth would feel-

Goddamnit, Jim!  Talk about not the time.  Because I don’t care.  I don’t care if Spock's face is still flushed green and he's still sucking on my hand and I don’t care if it feels way too good or if my hands are still sensitive to, well,  _this._ I mean, I've always been a tactile person and all, but I don't remember this ever feeling  _this_ good...and...

Shit.  

A strangled gurgling noise is pulled from the back of my throat, straight from the depth of noises that should never be heard.  All for obvious reasons, I promise.

Reasons which involve awkward maneuvering and Spock and mouths and…shit.  I mean, it’s innocent – the entire thing is innocent because hello, this is Spock we're talking about here - and it’s probably just to get a better angle but… Ugh, that doesn’t make it any better.  Or easier  Then again, nothing is ‘easy’ when your First is leaning over you with his thigh wedged in between your legs and by this point he might as well just be straddling my lap as he tosses a sign that reads _Fuck Me_ around his neck for all the hell it’s giving my libido.   

Shit; mental images.  Mental images.  Fuck my life.

My face feels overbearingly hot and I'm pretty sure my cheeks are simply radiating, way redder than they should be.  Eh, they’ll go great with my breathing, which I  _know_  is way heavier than it should be.

His thigh shifts in the slightest.   

My breath hitches.

My entire body tenses - _hot damn –_ even as Spock pauses, hands freezing in place and mouth stopping.  Or at least I think he stops.  I can’t be sure though, considering my brain pretty much decided ‘yay, anarchy!’ at least five minutes ago.  Images I was doing so well at ignoring, images I had managed to suppress through months of paperwork and whiskey are running amuck, zipping around in chaotic patterns through my mind’s eye - my quarters, the shower that is just big enough to fit two, the observation deck and Spock.  Fuck,  _Spock_.  Pretty lips and thin hands and a  _fantastic_  ass, the kind that doesn’t make my pants any less tight, and the fact that my hand is pretty much covered in Spock-saliva (which is way hotter than it really should be, by the way) doesn’t help matters.  Doesn’t keep me from thinking about what it would be like to have that mouth on my fingers and on my chest and neck and dick, and what it would feel like to have my mouth on his fingers because apparently Vulcans have, like, super sensitive hands - which is totally hot too.  

There isn’t much about this situation that isn’t hot, to be honest.  And there isn't much about this situation that isn't going straight to my cock either, thank you very much.

_"Jim."_

"Uh," I flounder, wide eyes and mouth wide open and unable to move – _touchtelepathtouchtelelpathtouchtelepathtouchtelepathtouchtelepath_ \- and he's staring at me because he  _knows._ He fucking knows.  His eyes are wide, or at least in his own, weird Vulcan way they are, and his face is almost as green as mine is red and he's fucking staring at me like a fucking deer in the headlights and I'm...I'm so, completely and utterly and undeniably screwed.  "Shit, Spock, I'm...uh...thank-you.  I think?  No, no, thanks..."  And now that I'm talking I can't stop, because I’m a rambler and that’s what ramblers do.  We ramble.  We say shit without really thinking about it and – oh god, this is not going to end well.  "Fuck...I...I really didn't...I mean.  I...I..."  And usually at this point Spock would say something like,  _"Jim, you are rambling"_  or  _"I am finding your tirade of incoherent linguistics to be detrimental to my I.Q."_ , but the situation isn’t all that usual to begin with, so yeah… I guess today just seems to be the day for all kinds of exceptions.  "I think...you, um, got it all.  I hope.”

My words are flowing in an almost coherent fashion, and now that they are I’m scrambling up and away from Spock like he has the plague.  Maybe he does, since all he’s been doing for the past five minutes is stare at me all awkward-like.

 

 

 

“Captain, I…I…”  Shit, his voice is rough.  Rough and thick and heady and goddamn is there anything about Spock that isn’t a complete turn-on? Someone please say yes. “I believe it would be advantageous to us both if we...” Because if not, Bones might have to catalogue his first death by libido.  No joke.

 

 

 

“Pretended this never happened?”  Because I could totally be down with that.

“I believe it would be the best for us both.”

Oh, thank fuck.  Thank fuck, thank fuck, thank fuck, thank fuck – maybe the universe really doesn’t hate me.  _Maybe._

“No, yeah, you’re right.  Like, a hundred percent right.  All the way…”  I pause to lick my lips and run a hand through my hair, “No, you’re right.  Look, I’m…I’m gonna go find Bones.”  I don’t even wait for a response, not befotr I’m turning around and running.

Thank the universe Spock doesn’t follow me. 

-x-X-x-

_**Science Lab Eight. May 5, 2263** _

Y’know that one saying they used to have have?  You know the one.  It’s all about doing things and saying things and some of those things being easier than others and…yeah.  You know it, I’m sure. They used to say it a lot, probably because it’s totally true. 

“Hey Spock, y’know what’s funny?”

Like forgetting that your First Officer totally knows that you’re completely and utterly attracted to them; that’s easier said than done.

“Please enlighten me, Captain.”

Forgetting that your First Officer probably isn’t attracted to you in return; that’s also easier said than done.

 “How you have this rabid love affair with the regs, everything from what goes where to who eats what – until it comes to your own well-being, in which case the regs can be kicked to the curb for all you care.”

Forgetting all that isn’t easy.  Forgetting that ambassadors aren’t gonna get any nicer and aliens any less kinky overnight just because Fate hates me only makes that worse.  It’s fucking impossible when the weird, diplomatic sex is factored in.

“Your grasp of physical limitations is simply astounding,” He dryly quirks, in a way that pulls me from my thoughts.  His eyes are still glued to the PADD resting on the lab table that’s littered with potted plants and unintentional glops of soil.  It’s almost like a hurricane hit the science labs and it’s probably driving Spock insane.  Good.  “As far as I was aware, regulations are an abstract ideal and therefore not only is it impossible to hold a ‘rabid love affair’ with one, but also for it to be ‘kicked to the curb’.  A moot point, I believe is the saying, considering that finding a curb in the recesses of space would prove to be quite problematic.”

Goddamned wry bastard.  He’s still cracking jokes, acting like everything is just fine and dandy.  Well, it isn’t, okay?  It isn’t and maybe it’s my fault because I should probably be avoiding him, really, I should, but…

But playing chess against the computer just isn’t any fun.

 “Yeah, yeah, yeah.  No need to be sassy about it; you know exactly what I mean,” I manage with a grin that I probably doesn’t reach my eyes.  My grins have been doing that a lot lately, if Uhura’s ever to be believed. 

“Indeed?”

“Yep,” I nod as I lean against the doorway of Science Lab Eight, “Regulation Two-Zero-Seven-point-Six states that no Officers are to work a double shift more than two times in a week.” Admittedly, the grin I give is totally smug because I’m not being humble about this at all, but that doesn’t mean I necessarily _deserve_ the look Spock is throwing my way; that he doesn’t give a rat’s ass what regulation Two-Zero-Whatever-point-Whatever says, he’s staying in the science labs even if it metaphorically kills him.  Maybe even literally, who knows.  “Considering my Vulcan nature, such regulations should not logically apply to my person. To constrain me to human standards of endurance is…illogical.”  And if I didn’t know him any better, I’d think that maybe he looked a little smug.  Except I do know him, which means he isn’t just maybe smug, he _is_  smug.  Raised eyebrows and everything; no ifs, ands, or buts.

“At least,” I finally concede after a pause of me staring at him, him staring at me and a one-way blinking contest that I still lose, “Take a lunch break.”

His silence is answer enough.

But then again, so is me marching up to him and shoving a bowl of salad into his face.  Because apparently, according to my convoluted brain, nothing quite says  _Trust me, we’re just friends; friendly friends who do friendly, platonic things with a side of occasional public sex_ like bringing offerings of salad.  Guess we both know who the girlfriend in this weird, twisted, fucked-up relationship is. 

“I am not hungry Captain,” He says with a look that could kill – until I give my own look, except my look is a  _‘Don’t make me get Uhura’_  look.  It’s a look that immediately shuts him up because, _hello,_ Uhura. 

 “So what’re you working on?”

“Analyzing, recording, and cataloguing,” he replies in between careful bites of salad, “The various flora and fauna that have been collected over the past six months.  I estimate that when we have completed our research, we will have added up to ten thousand newly discovered species to Starfleet’s database,” He pauses from a moment to type something onto the PADD, “Currently I am analyzing the flora from Cirrius XI.”

Oh, Cirrius XI – what would we do without you?  Such memories.  Fantastic, great, wonderful, terrifying memories.  Of Bones waking up in a fountain naked, Uhura getting mistaken for a hooker five times, Sulu banging Chekov in a not-so-empty alley and me…oh right, me.  There are so many memories just from me alone, like getting bit by Satan’s venomous, bastard spawn and forcing my First Officer to suck the venom out and oh, let’s not forget mind-molestation via my libido, because that’s always fun.

I have to force myself not to bang my forehead onto the nearest desk.  Just breathe out.  It could’ve been okay, we agreed to forget what happened, but I can’t.  Not when a certain _someone_ has a little thing called eidetic memory and that  _someone_ is as subtle as Pike and as awkward as Bones on a first date.  And trust me, as a certified wingman, I can tell you for certainty that that seriously says something.

On another note, Cirrius XI will be now forever be labeled as that one place where I discovered empirical evidence that the universe hates my guts.  Go me.

 “Y’know…speaking of Cirrius XI…”  _Don’t say it.  Please, don’t say it.  Just shut your mouth and don’t say it.  Don’t ever-_ “I know we said we’d forget about it and all, but Uhura told me about the whole Vulcan hand thing and that what you did was a lot like Vulcan porn or whatever is the equivalent of Vulcan porn, if that’s even a thing,”  Oh god, I said it.  I so, totally said it in the most awkward, most graceless way possible.  Keep up the good work and I’ll have a Vulcan in my bed in no time, “I’m sorry about that.    Because even though it’s not like I knew about it or anything, I wouldn’t have let you do that if I  _had_ known.  Which was awesome by the way, you doing that.  I mean - touch telepathy and cultural hand fetish aside - because I may be an ass sometimes and sometimes I’m a culturally insensitive ass too, but I’m not a culturally insensitive ass that would, like, make you take part in your culture’s version of porn just because I’m an idiot and can’t listen to my First Officer.  Sickbay isn’t that bad and I should really be thanking you because what you did was awesome - I already said that, didn’t I?  Oh well, because it’s true and I’m sorry.  Like, really, really sorry because sometimes I do really stupid shit and usually when I do, it’s you gets the short end of the stick and…yeah.  I’m, rambling, aren’t I?”

“Indeed,” He says, voice as monotone as ever.  But his eyes…I swear to god his eyes are smiling.  All sparkling and glinting in the light with streaks of deep brown and honey gold and - _stop it.  Stop it, stop it, stop it right this second James T. Kirk._   “However, the decision ultimately rested on me and considering your ignorance regarding Vulcan heritage, there is no need for amendments.”

 _“Except for the fact that I totally eye-fucked you and you totally know it too and the only reason you haven’t decked me is because I’m pretty sure decking people is against some Vulcan ethical code or something.”_ Is what I almost say.  But then I remember that this is Spock, not some one night stand, so screwing this up because of my big mouth and witty (weird) sense of humor isn’t the best course of action.   Drunkenly pissing off some random meat head I'm never gonna see again is completely different from soberly pissing off my First.  A.k.a the person who I entrust my life, my ship and my career to on a regular basis.  A.k.a be careful or-

“In fact, if anyone should be making amendments, I believe it should be I.”

Um… What?  I tilt my head to the side, eyes squinting as I do.  I think me and Spock have two entirely different interpretations of what happened.  Either that or Spock clearly doesn’t know what he’s talking about, which is only slightly plausible

“Spock…”  I slowly start before pausing.  There’s no good way to ask this.  Correction; there's no  _subtle_ way to ask this. “Your touch telepathy; is that, like, full on sentences and words and thoughts or just vague impressions? _”_

He tenses the second the words are out of my mouth.  Or at least, the Vulcan version of tensing, only visible to those who know what to look for.  Lips hardened into that impossible line, shoulders square straight, back rim-rod, eyes impossible to read; he knows where this is going. “It depends.”

“On?”

There’s a beat.

And for a moment I think he’s gonna ignore me, or change the subject in that way he does when he doesn’t like the direction a conversation is going.  But then he puffs out a breath in what is, no matter what he claims, a complete and utter sigh.  “Jim…”  He starts before pausing, like this is actually kinda painful or something.  “Unlike most civilizations rooted in telelpathy, Vulcans respect the need for personal privacy.  I would never attempt to use telepathy - touch or otherwise - without explicit permission unless the situation called for it.”

Now, snorting probably isn’t the best reaction – or graceful, or attractive - but really?  Come on Spock, playing dumb doesn’t suit you.  Of course, I tell him this and he just cocks his head to the side, like I’m _not_ supposed to find that endearing or something.  Because it definitely is, almost to the point of puppy-like endearing.  Goddmnit, Spock!  “Really Spock?  Not what I was asking and you damn well know it.  Just because you try to respect a person’s privacy and you try not to read their mind doesn’t mean shit when you accidentally do it anyways.”

“I…you are correct, I suppose it does not,” He slowly responds, as if grasping for the right words.

"Exactly.  Now, then answer my actual question."

"Vulcans do not typically discuss these matters."

His hands are minutely twitching at his side – again with the damned endearing thing – which is pretty much equivalent to me wringing my hands, and his eyes are subtly shifting from object to object.  Of course, when I grin a grin that’s more cheeky than anything else and give a comment that’s just a tad on the side of stubborn, matters aren’t exactly helped, per se.  Not that that's something new or anything.  "Then it's a damn good thing that you're only half Vulcan, now isn't it?"  

“I..."  He lets out an exhale of breath that could totally be considered exasperated, if I were to be pedantic, that is.  Then again it could also be considered a complete  _'Silly human, trying to understand matters beyond your puny brain's comprehension'_ look, because Spock would totally do that.  "What I pick up from physical contact depends on various factors, such as how prepared I am for the touch, how well-adjusted I am to the person I’m touching, how strong or weak my shields are, and how strong or weak the personality of the person I’m touching is.”  Another puff of breathe; a cross between exasperation and something else I can't quite place.  “You, for example, have not only a specifically strong personality but also a high psi rating - even for a human - and I must admit that the first few times we touched I was…overwhelmed.  A single touch would result in blatant telepathy, while in others, such as Dr. McCoy, it might only result in a simple transference of emotions.  In recent months however, I have become attuned to your presence, only when I am particularly distracted or when your emotions are particularly strong can I sense them.”

Oh.

_Oh._

That means…

He  _doesn’t_ know.  He  _can’t_ know.  Oh. 

That’s weird; I feel kinda dizzy, actually.  I brace myself against the tabletop. 

Anyways, he  _could_  know, maybe, but I don’t think he does.   I think he would’ve made it clear from the start, obvious through a best case scenario of avoidance and a worst case scenario of being “accidentally” pushed out of the airlock. So this is a good thing, right?  Not the ‘airlock’ thing, but the ‘he doesn’t know’ thing.  He won’t know.  Ever.  Sure, it means I’ll have to get over this stupid… _thing_ on my own, but that’s not a problem.  Not when it’s just that; a thing.  A stupid thing.  So stupid it doesn’t even deserve a proper name.  It’s a thing.  An it.  A…a…

God, I’m too tired for this shit.  And old.  I’m way too old to be dealing with nameless blobs of emotions floating around my head, but at least they’re blobs of emotion that no one knows about.  That’s the point here, I feel, Spock doesn’t know.  Correction; he  _probably_  doesn’t know.  I’m still not too sure about that deer in the headlights and what that was about, but whatever.  I’m tired and my head feels funny and I really don’t wanna think about this but thinking is better than filling out reports in the grand scheme of everything.

Crap, I’m rambling.  Again.

Has rambling always made me feel this light-headed?

I don’t know.  Can’t remember.

“Captain…” Spock’s looking me in the eyes, all serious and everything.  With deep, deep, deep brown eyes, all pretty like running honey.  "I would never purposefully compromise your privacy, I assure you.” 

“I never doubted that you would, Mr. Spock,” I find myself saying before I can even think about it.  Same goes for the smile I’m giving him too. 

And that table I'm clutching like my life depends on it, no thinking going on there, because I really do feel dizzy.  A little light-headed too.  Okay, maybe a lot. That's funny.  “So…you said you wanted to say sorry for something?”

“I believe I did,” He carefully says as he places the now empty bowl to the side, off of the lab table.  “Since we have already breached the subject of what occurred on Cirrius XI, I believe it is imperative that no erroneous conclusions are drawn from either party."

"Naturally." 

“I am pleased you see my logic as being natural,” The unspoken,  _Because I swear, if you make me explain my almighty, Vulcan logic to your tiny human brain one more time, I will bang your head into the nearest wall_  is almost blaring in its volume.  Which is kinda funny when you think about it because the words are unspoken, so they’re totally there even though they’re totally not, which is fucking trippy.  I mean, it’s like they’re floating up above our heads all pretty like and they’re just  _there._ Even though Spock isn’t saying anything, they’re there and they’re loud and blaring even though they really aren’t because they aren’t there.

Heh.  Paradoxes are funny.

“We have found that several of the indigenous flora found on Cirrius XI disperse a sort of gas or scent that produce disorientating effects.  It is not outside the realm of possibility to believe that we may have been under the mild effects of one such plant at the time of our…meeting, therefore I think we can agree that we should not be held to any actions we may have taken at that time.”

There are implications in those words. I think the word  _we_ means something.  I think.  A shame, then, that I don’t give a rat’s ass to try and figure that out.  Not when listening is really hard because my head is ringing and my body feels all light and fuzzy.  It’s not a bad feeling, it’s kinda…nice.  Like I’m floating on a cloud and Spock’s there with me and Spock’s…Spock. 

And Spock’s pretty, so it fits too.  And he has nice eyes.  I like them.  His voice, I like that too.  Its deep and baritone and sometimes I just wanna listen to it.  Not to what its saying because that’s boring and I don’t like boring, but just listen to the gentle hum in the air and the rumble in his chest.  It’s something I’d wanna go to sleep to, that’d be real nice.

Hmm…speaking of sleep, I’m tired.

“Captain?”

I’ve always liked his ears.  They’re pointy and a little funny (a lot of things are funny and those things make me giggle.  Giggling is fun) and the way his hair curls around the tips is nice and…I like it.  I like it and I just…I wonder if someone were to nibble on them if he would gasp.  I wonder if they’re sensitive.  I wonder if someone’s ever tried.  Probably not.  Maybe. 

Because I kinda want to.

“Captain? 

I really kinda want to.

“Captain, are you feeling well?”

So I do.

It’s easy.  It’s so, so easy to just reach up and run my fingers along the edges.  The skin is nice and smooth, cool and slick and my hand tingles in a super weird way and I don’t think that’s normal?  Maybe it is, I don’t know.  Probably not.  Don’t think so.  But that’s okay.  It’s okay because it feels good and the blush on Spock’s cheeks is cute and his eyes are wide and that’s cute too.  Cute is good. 

“I like them,” I think I hear myself murmur.  I can’t be sure.

“Jim…”  His voice is breathy.  I like it.  It sounds…nice.  I like nice.  “I believe you might…”  He lets out a heavy breath that puffs against my neck in a way that really tickles.  It tickles and its warm, which is funny and weird because his body is so cool, like, six degrees cooler than mine or something.  Or is it six degrees warmer?  I think it’s cooler…maybe.  But in a good way.  Totally a good way.  Definitely.  His heart is thumping against my side.  Our bodies are pressed against each other and I...I think I like that.  A lot.  “…be under the influence of… _ah…_ C-captain _...”_

Running my fingers along the pointed edges of his ear, I like that too. Still like that, actually.  And I wonder...I wonder...it was easy to reach up and touch them and it’s just as easy now to let my hand heavily drop to his shoulder.  It's all so easy.   And funny.  Leaning up on my tippy-toes and _fucking god,_ it's so, so, so easy - easier than anything I've ever done - to let out a puff of breath and just feel the jolt of tension roll through Spock’s muscles.  It’s easy and it’s funny and it’s miraculous too, when I run my tongue across that smooth shell of his ear.  My teeth catch on his lobe and the almost silent gasp Spock gives...it sounds more than nice.  It’s mesmerizing and beautiful and I kinda love it.  I wanna hear more of it.

"Jim."

Breathy and pretty.  Really pretty, but Spock's always pretty.  Especially as I'm running my teeth and tongue over his ear, along the pretty tapered point and the soft lobe.  He seems to like that – all of it.  I do too.  I like that when I nibble at the point and the edges, I can hear his breathe hitch and I like it when he bites down on his green, green,  _green_ bottomlip.  I like it even more when he does it because of me – something I’m doing or saying or touching.  And I think he likes it too.  I really think so and I like that he likes that.  It's good that he likes it.

He deserves to like something.  Because I want him to feel good - like I do.  Light-headed, floating on clouds; I want him to feel it.  He deserves it.  He does so much work and he's always so serious and he just needs to relax because Vulcans never relax but Spock deserves to relax.  And I like Spock.  I want him to relax.  And I think that maybe, finally, he is.  I think...I think he feels good.  That's good that he feels good.

He lightly shudders under my hands that are clasping his shoulders...or are those his hips?  Or are those his hands on my hips?  I don't know.  Can't tell anymore.

All I can tell is that I can hear his breathing because his head is stuck between my neck and shoulder and his body is so close to mine and my hips hurt a little from what I think is a grip of hands so then yes his hands are on my hips and mine are somewhere else and-

That's okay.

Spock is groaning and I'm giggling and it feels nice to giggle. I like it.  I like this.  And when Spock presses our palms together and a _zing!_ trails up my arm, I'm giggling because that’s really nice.

"Jim."

And...

I really wanna kiss Spock.  It feels right.  To look at him and those pretty, pretty, pretty brown eyes.  It's good to jerk forward and capture his lips and admire his pretty, pretty, pretty blush.  And it's nice, fucking nice, to loop my arms around his neck and giggle and just fucking kiss him.

He pushes against me, but I don't mind.  I'm letting him do what he wants.  It's nice.  He nips at my bottom lip and that’s funny.  Really funny.  I don’t mind.  Gives me goose bumps, when he nips at the swollen pink of my chapped mouth like he wants in.  Maybe he does.  Which is okay because it's nice and easy and good and fun, nice because he wants in and easy because I let him and good and fun because…yeah.  Our tongues tangle and I grasp at his tunic and I run my hands through his hair and let spit dribble down my chin and his body pushes against mine and his hands are gripping at me and holding me and I’m letting him.  His hands are cool on my body - my back and hips and wherever else they are because right now I'm a mush of feelings and maybe a few thoughts, but only maybe - or maybe it’s my body that’s cool on Spock's hands.

I still can't be too sure.

My head still feels hazy. Like it's floating.  Man, I'd give everything to stay like this, in Spock's arms with his lips devouring my lips and my neck and my jaw and my ear and me just letting him.  Me grabbing at him and me searching and letting and sometimes moaning.  Tracing his ears and jaw and neck with the tip of my finger too, which he likes.  I like what Spock likes and Spock likes a lot of things.

Which seems kinda funny at first, but Spock's a funny person.  "I like you," I think that's my voice.  I sound wistful; that's good.  I think.  I mean, if wistful means good that must be right. What does wistful mean?  I bet Spock would know.

Spock knows everything; he's smart like that.

"You're smart.  And funny.  You're pretty too. Anyone ever tell you that?  'Cuz they should."

"Jim..."

"I like your voice."

"Jim."

"You talk too much," I sigh, because I really like it now that Spock’s kissing my neck and when he's talking he isn't kissing my neck.  "Ah, there.  Spock, there." There's a wet heat on my collarbone; so fucking good.  He's sucking on it and god, I like that.  And when he mouths at my jaw, I like that too.  And I’m not the only one, because I know that _he_ likes it too.  When I card my fingers through his perfect hair (I like that too) and when I keep him in place because _oh god,_ his mouth is good.  "Yes...oh, Spock, yes."

My fingers grapple into Spock’s tunic and… too many.  Too many clothes.  Layers.  Shirts and pants and clothes.  Too many.  _Way_ too many.

“Spock,” Is that my voice?  “ _Spock…”_ I think it is.  I sound…I sound desperate.  I think maybe I am.  “Please…” I rock my hips against his.  My head feels hazy, my body like it's on fire.  I...I want more...and rocking my hips like that just feels so good and right and so, so, so good.  And when Spock rocks his hips back into mine and we're kissing again, his lips back up to mine, and it's like he's trying to consume everything that I am and that's okay.  I don't mind.

I really, really, really - _oh -_ don't mind.

I'm breathing so heavily, my mind...I can barely think.  I'm just holding on and rocking and swaying and Spock's leading because Spock's so good.  At everything.  He makes me feel so good and maybe...maybe I do the same because I'd do anything to hear him groan.  Make him happy.  Make him feel good.  I like it when Spock's happy.

"Jim," His hand lightly curls around my wrist.  I swallow.  I think that's his chest, skimming along with my hand wedged in between his shirt and his skin, but his hand is wrapped around my wrist.  I think.  Maybe.  I don't know.  Not when his eyes are so startling.  Blown wide and black and intense, all I can do is roll my hips against his and gasp.  It's like fire that's so much but not enough, that feels so good and I want this.  

"Spock."  

His throat is there and it's so...blank.  That's a problem.  It's not good.  Mine is throbbing with marks and bruises and it feels so damn good.  Spock…he needs to feel good.  Damn good.  He deserves to feel damn good, just like me.  It’s not fair if he doesn’t, right?  Right.

"Captain," He sounds strained.  That's...he shouldn't feel strained.  Or tense.  His muscles are tight and limbs taut, causing me to frown.  That’s not right.  "You are...you are under the influence of - Jim...Captain, please stop that - of-"

"You like this...don't you?"

"That w-would be highly...I-I..."

"Hmm?  Cat got your tongue?" I whisper into his throat and I giggle because that's funny.  A cat catching a Vulcan's tongue.  I bet that'd be cute.  I wonder if Spock likes cats.  Maybe I'll get him one.  That'd be nice.  

Nice.  Like leaning up and giving his ear a nibble, nice.  

"Are all Vulcans this sensitive or is that just you?"

"I am not sensitive."

"I like it."

"Captain, I do not believe-"

"I really do, y’know?" I don't think I've ever said that before.  I wonder why.  "I like you.  You're cool," I laugh because that's funny.  I'm so funny, "Get it?  Because you're, like, cool with your, um, personality and all and your body's cool and-"

"Captain!"

He sounds exasperated.  Poor Spock.  I lick a stripe down his the column of his neck - it tastes spicy. Like, chai tea or cinnamon.  It’s interesting… but good.  Spock tastes good.  And interesting.  "You need to relax, baby."

"I-I object to being re-referred to as an inf-infant."

"It's only 'cuz I like you," I coo into his ear.  "And I do.  I really do." I roll my hips to prove it and it does.  It should.  It feels good.  Feels nice.  Feels cool.  More. I want more.  Of Spock, I mean, because I really like Spock.

"Captain," He should call me Jim.  Why doesn't he call me Jim?  I don't wanna be Captain.  Just Jim is fine.  "I insist that this stops immediately.  You are not in the proper state of mind to-” He pauses, “We – _you -_ need to stop.”

"I want you to be happy. To feel good.  I mean, I do, why can't you?"

"You've been drugged.  I believe you're experiencing the effects of the plants-"

"I like plants, they're pretty.  Do you like plants?"

"I should escort you to sickbay."

I pull away a bit and my lower lip juts out; that’s not fair.  I don't wanna go.  I wanna stay here.  "But _Spoooock_ , I like it here.  Let me stay~"

"Doctor McCoy-"

"Oh...Bones!  Bones is in sickbay, right?  I like Bones!" Everyone likes Bones.  He's funny.  And has illegal whiskey! "But not as much as you.  I like you better.  You're the bestest."

"Can you walk?"

What kind of question is that?  Walking's, like, a piece of cake.  Fluffy and easy and moist and who doesn't like cake? Klingons.  That's who.  Klingons don't like cake because they're mean and cake isn’t.

"I could float, if I wanted."

"I - Captain...that is highly illogical."

I hum in response, then bury my head in Spock's cool neck and stumble when he moves me forward.  The world tilts and I whimper and lick and nip at green-tinted skin and Spock sighs.  That seems a little significant but I don't know.  Vulcans are hard ones.

Heh.  That's funny.  Hard.

_Oomph!_

Whoa; I giggle.  I think…. Is that..?  Spock's carrying me.  It's like I'm a princess and I'm special and everyone loves me and does that make Spock my knight in shining armor?  I think it should because that’d be cool.  It’d be even cooler if he'd just let me leave a few little bruises on his neck.  I like the look of the green.  It's pretty.   But every time I try Spock keeps turning his head away from me and that just isn't fair.  Or nice.  I want to help him.

"Goddamnit, Jim!"

Oh, oh, I know that voice!  Don’t tell me, it’s…it’s…Bones!  Definitely Bones.

Bones is cool.  I like him.  Most of the time.  I gue-

_Ow._

That hurt. Didn't like it.  I-

-x-X-x-

**_Irria. May 24, 2263_ **

Breathe, Jim.  Breathe.

In.  Out.  In.  Out.

It's just like all the other times, you'll be okay...

Maybe…

Hopefully…?

That is, unless I keep talking in the third person, in which case things won’t be okay.  Third person is one of things reserved for crazy people and cavemen and Jim Kirk is neither a crazy person nor a caveman, thank you very much.  Of course, Uhura argues on the caveman one; she says I am, I say it’s just another fine example of semantics in their indigenous habitat.

Because really, isn't that what everything always comes back to anyways; semantics?  That and context, I swear.

They’re both gigantic pains in my ass, almost all the way to the point of conspiring against me.  They’ve probably already made a pact with Mother Nature and diplomacy and everything.  The 'let's-drive-James-T.-Kirk-insane initiative' seems to be a pretty fitting name.  Or, even better, 'I-wonder-how-long-it-would-take-for-his-First-Officer-to-smite-his-ass-halfway-to-the-Laurentian-system effort'.  I like the sound of that one.

So...where was I again?

Oh, right.  First Contact.  Diplomatic kissing. Sign of openness.  Me and Spock.  Awkward.

Breathe.

Breathe, Jim.  Fucking breathe.  It's just a kiss, for Christ's sake.  We've done far worse with far larger stakes.  It's not gonna kill you.

I hope.

"Captain Kirk of the Great Starfleet Empire, we welcome you and your underlings," The universal translator spits out in jilted Standard.

I let out a shaky breath, as my mind focuses way too much on the stilted diction of the translator.  Underlings.  Really?

Never mind; now’s not the time for distractions.  I mean, it’s not like we haven’t done it before.  And, hell, I should've seen it coming anyways.  Of course, in a way, I kinda did but that’s only because Diplomacy's a bitch.  And don’t even try to say she isn’t because the fact that the, like, last five quadrants have been nothing but aliens that use sex and sucking face as signs of outstanding diplomatic openness only proves my point.  It's a fetish, I tell you.

"We thank you for having us, ambassador," I say with my most pleasant smile, which considering the circumstances isn't very pleasant at all.  Thank god for alien obliviousness, since he doesn’t seem to notice it.

The ambassador inclines his head towards us in a way that seems nice but could be anything but.  In diplomacy, one little gesture like an inclination of the head could be anything in between a nice, amicable gesture and a not-so-amicable, non-verbal 'Fuck You, asshole'.  Knowing my luck, it’s probably the latter. "Of course, Captain Kirk of Starfleet, we are honored.  Drink."  He passes a glass of what looks suspiciously like wine to Spock, who takes a sip before passing it off to me.  According to Uhura’s report, it's all a part of some big ritualistic ceremony that begins with three days of negotiations and ends with two days of feasting - which would be a whole lot nicer, y’know, if the beginning didn’t also involve drinking suspicious wine-stuff and playing a nice, friendly game of tonsil hockey.  

Between friends.

In a totally platonic, I'm-so-not-attracted-to-you-kind-of-way.  Because we're friends and that's what friendly friends do.  See?  Not a problem.  Not even a little.

In.  Out.

Breathe.

"Thank you," I smile before drinking from the goblet.  The taste is bitter, almost like dark chocolate, and has a musky, almost spicy after-taste.  It's not...terrible necessarily, but not necessarily good either. "For your hospitality." I continue to smile through the taste, which is a little awkward after about five seconds of it.  The knowledge that four of my closest friends are about to get front row seats to me and my First Officer sucking face in a totally non-professional way doesn’t make it any less awkward.  

_My god, stop being a bitch.  Not like they haven't seen worse of you two, you're acting like you're fucking fifteen.  It's no different than any other time._

Except that it is.

Uhura may not know it and Bones may not know it and Sulu and Chekov may not know it, but it is.  It's different; I know it and Spock knows it.  Last time the guy had been this tense had been during the Chapel incident; whiskey and alien-emotion spores make a terrible combo.  Or a great combo, if you’re a borderline sadist who enjoys painfully awkward confessions and emotional breakdowns.

“Captain,” Spock murmurs from beside me, his shoulders tense and his tone clearly saying he’d like to get this over with, preferably now.  “I do not believe we should endeavor to stall the inevitable.” 

“No.”  And maybe the chuckle I give is a tad weaker than I would like, so what?  And maybe my knees feel just a smidge unstable, like that’s a big deal.  And maybe, just maybe, when I turn towards Spock and we’re sideways to the ambassador and the crew, I feel a little…speechless.  Maybe.  “I do believe you are correct, Mr. Spock,” I actually manage to finish as I place my hands on his shoulders, because I think that’s what I usually do.  I think.  Maybe.  I guess I can’t quite be too sure though because usually I don’t have to think about it, I just _do_ it.   But now that I’m having to think about it, it makes me feel like I’m fifteen again and that pretty blond chick from sophomore year bio is kissing me under the bleachers.  It’s awkward and uncomfortable and clumsy and unsure and neither of us quite know what to do and oh my god, it’s just like Beta Psi.  When that alien/princess/dignitary chick had insisted we partake in their festival of diplomacy or whatever and of course the kissing part of it, had not been optional. 

Never was.

Not even now, when we should be used to it.  And I think we were for a while there. All until we realized just _how_ used to it we had gotten and just how not okay that is and damn, isn’t that a paradox for ya?  

Or maybe that’s just me.  I can’t tell.  Spock’s been hard to read lately, all blank looks and emotionless stares, which is more than just a little infuriating.  Especially because they all they tell me that he’s definitely feeling _something –_ you can’t repress emotions that aren’t there, am I right or am I right? – but just not _what_ he’s feeling.  Right now is a prime example, staring at me like most normal people would a blank wall.  Its borderline insulting, actually, since believe it or not, I like thinking that I’m a tad more interesting than a wall of all things.  At least make me as interesting as a Flamingo. Or a porcupine, because those guys are adorable little shits. 

See?  Porcupine.  They’re cute.  Prickly, but cute.  I’ll be fine.  _We’ll_ be fine.  It’d be even better if I’d actually breathe.  Just breathe.  I’ve done this with plenty of people, Spock isn’t any different.  He _can’t_ be any different. Physical attraction is merely that…physical.  It shouldn’t and doesn’t change anything.

It really doesn’t. 

Because that’s all this is.  I’m _physically_ attracted to Spock, _sexually_ attracted to him and that’s that because sex is just sex.  Which means there’s nothing to worry about.  I’ve done this before.  It’s just a kiss.  Nothing awkward or uncomfortable; a kiss.

Which is funny, because no matter how many times I keep telling myself that, it doesn’t do shit.  “Spock-“

_Mmmph!_

Well, that was kinda…well…unexpected.

Spock’s kissing me.  Definitely kissing.  Open mouthed, hands latching onto hips, that’s-gonna-hurt-in-the-morning, kissing me.

_Damn._

And almost instinctively, my hand travels from its place on Spock’s shoulder to the back of his neck, probably not the brightest move.  Then again, letting my eyes flutter closed probably isn’t too bright either and…and letting my tongue enter into this whole mishap of parted lips and grasping hands probably…yeah, I probably shouldn’t have done that.  Not too smart.  By any means.  In any possible way, shape, or form - but it’s what I do, because sometimes (or most of the times) my notoriety for saying ‘fuck it’ to logic actually has some merit to it.

Not that I’m the only one, if actions really do speak louder than words, that is.

A hand sliding down to my lower back, a hot mouth and cool lips insistently pressing into mine, a firm leg and an even firmer body rubbing against me, a rough tongue meeting mine in tangling, persistent motions.  Wrapping and sucking and exploring, poking and prodding around the other; Spock is way better at kissing than that chick from bio.  The sounds he makes are a lot hotter too - soft exhales through his nose, just barely hitched, and barely there murmurs that make my hand curl into his hair.  I want…

I want so badly.

The feel of our tongues sliding against the other is so good, especially when Spock’s is so alien and foreign and rough like a cat and I remember…I remember that that’s exactly what I thought when this first started.  That _god,_ it was so hot.  Still is too.

Then again, it’s hard for it not to be hot when Spock’s kissing me like our fucking lives depend on it.  Nibbling at my bottom lip within the kiss, it’s like he actually _knows_ what he’s doing.  Spock’s hand presses harder into my back, forcing my hips to hitch slightly on his knee.  I don’t think Spock meant to do that, if the slight tensing of his muscles means anything.

Probably.  It usually does.

Except I don’t think ‘usually’ is a term that applies here.  Because I’m pretty sure that usually our other kisses haven’t been this… _this_.  But pretty sure is a vague term and I think - I hope - I would’ve noticed.  Spock’s hands on my back are kneading and his mouth continues to move against mine and that’s anything but vague - warm and oh-so-right and oh-so-hot-and his tongue is doing all the right things in all the right places and I can’t help but groan. 

_“Ah.”_

Spock pulls away.

His face is green, that’s the first thing I notice.  His face is green and body stiff and expression so carefully blank that it doesn’t take a genius a figure out what happened.  It’s half unfortunate and half fortunate.  Or maybe it’s all unfortunate, as we stare at each other like we’re afraid to look behind, to see if anyone else has noticed.  They probably did.  I mean, it’s not like we were exactly discreet.  Or subtle.

“Thank you, Captain Kirk and Commander Spock of Starfleet, for your participations,” I’m barely listening, as Spock’s cheeks continue to only darken and darken and darken with hues of green.  I doubt my cheeks are any better, all red and flustered, “If you follow me I show you to your hospitality.”

For a moment there’s silence, until I manage to get past the thickness of my throat, a strained “Thank you,” somehow making it through my entirely not-convincing smile as we begin to walk.  Harder than it sounds, actually, when I’m trying to look anywhere that isn’t my crew or Spock.

Especially Spock.

Our gazes still meet though, all awkward and everything (and fuck, I really do feel like I’m thirteen and girls have cooties and looking them in the eyes is like having to take down a homicidal Romulan from the future and I’m so fucked it isn’t even funny).  But that doesn’t stop it, doesn’t keep the one thing we both (we all) know from passing between us anyways.

Something’s changed.

No, not even that; _we’ve_ changed.

Shit.

-x-X-x-

_**Irria. May 27, 2263** _

Y’know what’s weird?  When things go according to plan.  It’s such a novelty that even things are going well, I’m inclined to think they’re going wrong.  It’s the paranoia speaking, of course, but still… The point still stands.  Negotiations _never_ go according to plan.  Ever.  Because something _always_ happens.  _Always._

It’s almost a given, in a way. 

Eh, who am I kidding?  It _is_ a given.  

A rite of passage, even.

And I don’t care what Spock says, everything went as planned.  Even if the terms of the contract should’ve being more thoroughly negotiated, it doesn’t fucking count because I’m still putting this one down as a win in my book.  No one was hurt, no one was maimed, no one was publically humiliated or banned from anywhere or sentenced to execution or _actually_ executed, and that’s fuck well good enough for me.  So, Spock?  He can go shove it, because I’ve been a Captain long enough to know that you don’t go looking a gift horse in the mouth. 

You just don’t.

Especially not when massive, two day parties complete with all the food you can eat, all the booze you can drink and all the pretty people you can fuck are involved.  Especially not when most (or all of them) Diplomatic parties tend to be a lot more diplomatic and a lot less party.  All stiff hosts and blank rooms and bland food and gross drinks and-

You get the point.  Most diplomatic parties suck, and then there’s this diplomatic party.  It’s less of a diplomatic party and more of a diplomatic festival. A gigantic, city-wide festival with street vendors on every corner and music in every nook, decorations in every cranny, and locals everywhere in between.  They’re mindlessly wandering, milling through the streets and crowds and alleys without a purpose, with beads around their necks and colorful robes on their bodies and ornate bracelets on their wrists.  They’re a pretty colorful people, all bright hues and neon shades, and they’re pretty damn talkative too.  Give them the chance, a topic, a subject - the color of the sky, the prettiness of the flowers, the ethical implications of warp core theory and lithium deposits – and they’ll easily talk you to death.  No joke, try it.

I did and, well, it was kinda fucking cool, actually.  Completely obvious that the Irriats are the kind of people who don’t give two shits about diplomacy, but it was still cool.  They’re the type who are great with dancing and eating and drinking and talking and love it too, but diplomacy?  Not in a million years.

Basically, they’re my kind of people.

Then again, that much was kinda obvious from square one.  Even from just staring out into the city’s downtown that’s pretty clear – a simple but pretty square filled with shops and restaurants and art galleries, with benches and statues and small fountains.  There’s music and there’s dancing and the low hum of conversations drifting in and out of focus, almost like a sort of unorganized center of the festival.  Technically, the festival is supposed to be spread out among the brick and cobblestone city, but all the free food and (what could be) free alcohol (but then again what could be some sort of weird poison) is centered around the square, which means so are all the humans.  The same can’t be said for the Irriats though, who are spread out all over the city and stone paths.  Not that really concerns me or that I really care, since at this point I’m just happy no one’s died of food poisoning. 

Yet. 

The fact that none of the plants have developed Venus Fly Trap-like mentalities is also a _huge_ plus. 

Because yeah, they’re everywhere.  The plants, I mean.  And I mean fucking everywhere; the cobblestone streets, the round-abouts, balconies and window-sills and doorsteps and porches and goddamn, these people like their plants.  I mean there are centerpieces which are lined and filled with them - flowers and bushes, pink and purple and red, big and small, some with leaves and some without, some in bundles and some with stalks, all with vines crawling up their stems – and it’s ridiculous.  They arch over the city in canopies, trees that are bigger than anything I’ve ever seen, and keep the sun off the walkways through threaded layers of leaves and flowers and everything in between.

Science must be having a field day.

Or, most of science.  Because, you see, there just might be a certain Senior Science Officer who probably isn’t having a field day right now and that might be because of me.  Oops.  Yeah, he’s not a happy camper right now.  Especially not with me.  Or really anyone with two legs, a heartbeat and a natural knack for shameless flirting.  But especially me.

And the guy who I might have left Spock with on a kinda, accidentally long-term basis.  And me.  In my defense, it was an unintentional and I only meant to be gone for a second.  I was even getting him a drink for him for crying out loud, and it wasn’t like I knew the guy was horny as hell or anything, it just sort of happened like that.             

Now, me standing off to the side watching from the distance?  Yeah, totally on me.  I know, I know; I’m a terrible person, Uhura tells me all the time.  And Spock too, with the way he keeps shooting me dirty looks.  In a totally serene, I-am-Vulcan way, of course.

And don’t get me wrong, I feel bad… 

Kinda.

A little.

Maybe.

I’m a terrible person, I know.  I get it, trust me.  But Spock…well, he looks like he wants to crawl under the nearest table and just die, which is kinda fucking hilarious, especially on a Vulcan.  It almost makes the threat of Vulcan nerve pinches, botched lab reports, and mounds of useless, unnecessary paperwork worth it.

_Almost._

A hand is placed on Spock’s upper arm and that… No.  Just no.  Not when Spock gives a bit of a jump and he steps to the side in a way that would only suggest mild discomfort for humans, but for Spock suggests a mountain, a cave, and a goldmine of awkward discomfort.  Hell, I can almost feel it radiating off him in thick waves of awkward and the way his gaze darts towards me?  That’s a total _‘help me’_ gesture.

Well, Spock, what are friends for?  I mean, sure, zigzagging through clustered crowds with a drink in one hand and a smirk stretched across chapped lips (and okay, maybe there might be certain eye-glints which give off total _I’m about to drop-kick a bitch_ vibes, but I like to go above and beyond, okay?) isn’t the usual answer, but I’ll take it.

 “Phew, long lines.  You guys sure do like your alcohol.”

I’ll give the guy this, he smiles at me as I find my place beside Spock.  It’s more of a barring of teeth than an actual smile, though whether that’s because of legitimate aggression or simply because to the Irriats, smiling didn’t exist until cultural diffusion started butting its head, I don’t know.  Apparently to them, smiling was once barring teeth and barring teeth was aggressive and boy did that make for a tense First Contact.

“We understand that intoxicative drinks served often at parties of Terran, yes?” The universal translator spits out, pulling me from my thoughts.  As per usual, the Standard is garbled, as the guy, a diplomat, eagerly nods his head at us both.

I chuckle as my hand not-subtly slips downwards to rest at Spock’s lower back, this time my grin slightly more act-war-ish than it probably should be.  Sue me.  “That does tend to be a trend.” My eyes slid to Spock, who’s looking at me like I’m insane (maybe I am, maybe I’m not.  Who can ever tell?), and when I wink at him it’s like everything else I’m throwing his way; just about as subtle as Bones’ and Scotty’s lovechild strapped to an at-warp Starship would be.

Not that that’s a bad thing really, when a look of recognition dawns on the ambassador’s face.  Instantly, he knows.

Good. 

I mean, Spock’s gonna kill me the second he walks away, but good.

“Wink means desire for sexual intercourse, yes?  I read that.  Apology, Ship Captain Kirk, did not know.  I do not mean to claim your mate.”

My smile does not falter, even as Spock stiffens even further under my hand and the diplomat backs away nervously, hands held up in a gesture of _please don’t kill me._   He’s even nervously smiling and isn’t that just a fine example of cultural diffusion?  Anyways, not the point.  “Not a problem, man. We Terrans usually aren’t too overt about it anyways, no way you could’ve known.  Not that I blame you though, who wouldn’t want a piece of this sweet ass?”

Again, not the wisest thing to say.  Okay, maybe it was even a _stupid_ thing to say, considering shit’s _already_ pretty awkward between us as it is, but whatever.  Spock can deal.  I mean, I did just save his ass and all – literally, ha.

“Thank you for generosity.  I leave now.  My best wishes, I leave with you.”

And then, true to his word, he’s gone, leaving me and Spock alone.  Again.  And like every other time we’ve been alone lately, it’s awkward.  Painfully so.  Except this time Spock is blushing, which just means his intent to kill is way more outward than usual, subtleties are being damned I guess.

“You may remove your hand from my person now, Captain.”

Oh.  Right.  I tentatively smile up at Spock and totally ignore the fact that heat is blooming along my cheeks.  “And if I happen to like my hand right where it is, Mr. Spock?”

Stupid. Stupid thing to say, again.

“Remove your hand Jim.”

Ouch.

His voice is forceful but authoritative, which is half completely terrifying, half amazingly hot, and half undeniably cute.  It’s a super contradicting mix, made even worse by the fact that Spock’s still totally blushing.  Yeah, doesn’t really help his case too much, now does it?  I mean, like, not at all.  The hand, however, that’s hovering suspiciously close to my neck in what might be a gesture of Vulcan nerve pinching, helps his case _a lot._

Like, my hand is instantly gone, it helped a lot. “Sorry,” I scratch the back of my neck, “You know me.  Always pushing boundaries.”

His response is dry as ever, which is good.  It’s usual. Usual tends to be good. “Unfortunately yes.”

“Real funny, Spock.  So…how’s science been doin’?  Haven’t been down there in a bit, have I?  Should probably change that,” I end up saying because talking about work is so much easier.  It’s easier than talking about avoidance and easier than talking about _I miss you_ and _why are we doing this to each other_ and it’s just…easier.  Less risky.  Work is a safe subject, so we talk about work.

Spock tells me about all the new experiments and the old ones too.  He tells me about how they collected over one hundred samples from the last planet we touched down on and he tells me about the Physics department’s collaborated work with Engineering on Warp Core Theory.  He tells me about the one ensign that almost blew up half a lab, the one Lieutenant-Commander who kept that from happening and he suggests that said Lieutenant-Commander get a commendation.  He’s probably right, of course. 

Usually is, y’know?

Even as he tells me a hundred different things that I probably won’t remember tomorrow morning, but that’s okay.  Because we’re talking.  Of our own free will, we’re talking and we’re not avoiding each other and we’re not trying to ignore the fact that we totally tongued each other just a few days ago and totally kind of liked it and that’s good.  It’s a step forward, us acting somewhat…normal, again.  Whatever the hell normal means, that is.

The point is we’re getting there, kind of.

A waitress type woman passes by with a platter of only two drinks, offering them to us. I almost immediately grab one, because hello I’m a Kirk, even though Spock doesn’t follow.  Instead, he waits with this skeptical look on his face, which is fine because its normal.  Me being stupid and Spock being cautious; that’s normal and normal tends to be good.

The woman, who I guess is a much faster learner than anyone else on this planet, charmingly smiles at him.  It doesn’t change anything though – of course it doesn’t - because this is Spock, unmovable son of a bitch.  It isn’t until I give a loud, mostly unstrained laugh, telling him to take the damn thing because _even Vulcans can have a little fun every once and a while,_ that anything does change.  He takes the drink, still completely suspicious, as per usual, and he insists that Bones scan it, also as per usual, except…

Except I’m already downing the damn thing _–_ Oops?

Except not really.

There’s a clank as I put the slim glass back on the platter, and a hush as I give a lopsided grin and my eyes slide to the side.  Spock’s finally drinking from the glass, even if it is in small sips.  He doesn’t down it like me, which probably wouldn’t have been too bad an idea, but I guess that’s just too bad.  The waitress’ smile grows, I roll my eyes because _come on_ , and the damned Vulcan just does his usual non-verbal _Fuck You_ thing to both of us.  So, yeah, typical Spock.

It takes forever, I swear, but when he’s finally done Spock sets the glass down on the platter next to mine.  He curtly thanks the waitress, who, apparently also being a lot less dense than the rest of her people, briskly disappears.

“That was unwise.”

“Perhaps.”

He throws a raised eyebrow in my direction, “Toxins could have easily been concealed within the drink.”

This time when I shrug I also roll my eyes.  And give Spock a distinct _look_ that might just be considered borderline glare.  “Killing us holds no advantage for them.  Holding us captive?  Maybe.  Torture us for information?  Also, maybe.  But those are long shots.  If they wanted us dead or captured or tortured they would have only asked for Senior Officers, not invite the whole damn crew down for a free-for-all festival.  Conclusion?  You’re paranoid.”

Spock’s eyes flicker upward, a gesture that would so be an eye roll on anyone else.  “It is my job to ensure the Captain’s safety at all times.”

“How sentimental of you,” I end up saying with a click of my tongue.  “I mean, don’t get me wrong, the gesture is appreciated but unnecessary.” I lean back against the guard rail of some pathway leading to some shop and yawn.  Two days of straight negotiations tends to be exhausting.  And tiring.  And tedious.  _And_ it usually leaves for a very, very, very sleep deprived Captain. 

Woot.  Woot.

“The poisoning would not necessarily have to be intentional.”

Okay, I’ll give him that.  It’s happened before, but now we’re getting into ifs and maybes and buts and that – I have to restrain a chuckle – is dangerous territory to be in when with a science officer.  The whole lot of them are just so damned literal.  Because, yeah, it’s happened before and hell, it might happen again, but considering all the other shit that’s also happened before, his point is pretty invalid. 

Suck on that for a while, why don’t you?

“Spock, these people aren’t exactly stupid.  They’ve spent the last god knows how many years, ever since First Contact and everything, studying both Terran and Vulcan culture in an insane amount of detail.  Our customs, our preferences, our foods and drinks and clothes and _everything,_ almost to the point of it being creepy, and I don’t think _this_ is a base they would’ve missed.  Accidentally killing a Starfleet Captain because of physiological differences doesn’t look too good on a diplomatic scale, now does it?” He pauses to think, “Yeah, that’s what I thought,” I finally say as I cross my arms over my chest and try to make my smile at least marginally not-smug.  Try is a key word.

“I suppose…” His brown eyes study me, “I suppose your conclusion is not entirely without merit.”

“Gee, Spock, don’t sound so convincing.” 

Of course, the glare he gives me in return is so outward its almost funny.  It’s one of those that overshoots ‘not-glare’ territory by a mile andlands straight in the middle of _Go To Hell_ and _Fuck You_.  It’s marginally hilarious, mind you.  “Your sarcasm is not appreciated.”

“Your face isn’t appreciated,” I toothily grin as I shift a little.  My fingers fidget against my leg, strumming my regulation slacks.

“The fallacies in that statement are endless.”

I shrug, “Probably.”

A sort of scoffing noise is made in the back of Spock’s throat, as if he thinks that ‘probably’ is an understatement.  Which, yeah, it probably is, even as his eyes drift over the crowd around us. 

Above, below, to our sides, people are milling about everywhere.  They’re standing in clusters and grouped circles and they’re intermingling among each other like this is a normal thing.  Like festivals and parties and booze and food are normal, everyday things here.  God, I hope so.

Spock minutely shifts from my side, and… he isn’t tense.  It’s almost like he’s at ease; no condescension, no superiority, no caution, just…Spock.  It’s all in the subtleties, you see.  The things that aren’t there so much as the things that are.  The posture that isn’t ramrod straight, the lips that aren’t ever-so-slightly curled, the eyebrows that aren’t raised – he isn’t judging, merely…looking.  Which is odd, because as far as I know, Spock has two settings; curious and judgmental.

…

Okay, correction, three settings; curious, judgmental _and_ sassy.  Because I don’t give a rat’s ass what Spock says, he totally rocks the sass-master vibes.  Not even Gaila can compare, which is some parts impressive and other parts entirely frightening.

“How curious.”

“Hmmm?” I hum with a lifted brow as I twist around to follow his brown gaze, which is fixed on a waitress, a lot like the one we saw, down below.  She’s standing next to Sulu and Chekov with a platter, handing them both drinks that, like the waitress, look suspiciously like the ones we were given.  Same glass, same color, same amount, same everything. 

 _Weird…._     

“It seems the Irriats are giving the drinks to those who they perceive as being romantically and sexually affiliated.”

Oh.

Well… Suddenly, taking that drink doesn’t seem like the smart idea it was at the time. 

Spock, one.  Jim, zero.

“It is most…curious,” Spock’s head tilts to the side, his face almost imperceptivity scrunched into a look of almost cute contemplation.  I give a little chuckle - because how can I not? – as my eyes drift back to the crowd and my footing uncomfortably shifts. 

Almost immediately my gaze finds Chekov and Sulu again, which creates implications that are just as amusing as they are disturbing – if Spock is right, that is.  He probably is, since it _is_ Chekov and Sulu.  No surprise there or anything.  Or at least – wait… is that? 

Holy shit.  _Holy shit,_ that is.  It’s Bones and it’s Uhura, standing by the fountain on the level below us and next to them is another fucking waitress (I swear they’re everywhere) handing them another fucking pair of another drinks.  And that – _that –_ flies straight past amusing, overshoots hilarious and lands right on the border of ‘ _oh my fucking god, why didn’t anyone tell me’_ and ‘ _oh, this is so disturbing; my poor, beautiful eyes’_ territory _._  It’s a border that just keeps getting thinner and thinner too with every waitress I find, all of them suspiciously near a pair of _Enterprise_ crewmembers.  Damn, either the Irriats have scary good intuition, I’m an oblivious idiot, or we’re hardly as subtle as we think we are.

My money’s on that second one.

“Jim…are you feeling well?”

“Huh…” I sharply turn my eyes away from the crowd as my fingers hurriedly thrum against my pant leg.  I’m giving Spock this look, which I’m pretty sure translates to confusion – or, at least that’s what it’s _supposed_ to translate to.  Who knows what it’s actually saying.  “…Yeah, why?”

“You are fidgeting.”

My leg freezes, my hand stops, my head pauses and my teeth still.  My leg, which was constantly shifting and bouncing and pivoting; my hand, which I was tapping against my bouncing leg; my head, which was back to darting with my gaze; my teeth, which were worrying the flesh of my bottom lip – they all stop and for a moment, a single moment, I’m completely still. 

But it only lasts a moment.  Because then the stillness is broken and it starts all over again, as if sitting still just doesn’t feel right.   And it doesn’t, which is odd.  I’m usually hyperactive, but not _that_ hyperactive.  I shift uncomfortably; there’s this feeling under my skin that I don’t quite know what to do with, simply sitting there all insistent like, almost like a light itch or a slow burning sensation that’s simmering along my nerves.  It makes the whole try-not-to-look-like-an-neurotic-spastic-idiot thing kinda hard, actually.  “Am I?  Didn’t know.”

“Yes, you are.  Your speech patterns seemed to have increased in speed as well.”

“Really?” My leg jostles again as I pivot to watch Chekov and Sulu and then back again to watch Thomelon and Doctor Noel, because apparently they talk.  A lot.   And very intimately, I guess. 

“Indeed, Captain.” I don’t need to see Spock’s facial expression to know that he’s staring at me like I’m crazy.  One eyebrow lifted in distant curiosity, lips pursed in foreboding concentration, it’d cute if I weren’t too busy trying to figure out when in all of hell Chapel and Gaila happened.  “Perhaps you should consider retiring early.”

My glance momentarily skips back to Spock the second the words leave his mouth, before darting to the crowd again, “Really? Cuz’ I’m actually feelin’ pretty good, y’know?  And anyways, couldn’t that be considered rude,” I say with a wave of my hand before adjusting my shirt.  My footing is still shifting as I do it, even when my fingers go back to strumming along my pant leg.  The itch is still there, resting under my skin, simmering and smoldering, and the burning is still slowly creeping through my veins and I still don‘t know quite what to do about it.

“I am certain the Irriat council would understand given the circumstances, Captain.”

Suddenly, the burning turns into a buzzing.

“Furthermore, your already established penchant for over-estimating your health hardly leaves me placated by your assessment.”

It’s still under my skin and it’s still insistent but now it’s a buzzing and now and it’s ringing in my ears a little now, too.  And I can totally feel it, the fidgety-ness.  The way my gaze darts between people and the way my body is practically bouncing up and down with extra energy because standing still just isn’t an option because…it just isn’t right.  Doesn’t feel right, doesn’t look right, almost like something’s wrong when I’m not doing _something._

Maybe Spock’s right, maybe I shouldn’t have drunk whatever that thing was.  My gaze darts to Chekov, who seems to be slurring something into Sulu’s ear.  Yeah…maybe Spock’s double right, I probably should leave early too…

But then there’s the problem of what to do once I do leave early.  My options are fairly limited, lying within the bounds of pacing the room they gave me until whatever the hell this isgoes away or counting sheep, all the while hoping I don’t die of boredom.

Sounds thrilling.

No really, it does.  I love being stuck in rooms with nothing to do for hours on end, just ask Bones. Now, give me something to do-

“Perhaps, I would not be adverse to a game of chess.”

Now that I could do.  Chess with Spock is always entertaining a-

Wait.

Did Spock just-?

 “Of course not, Jim.” A raised eyebrow is thrown my way, but this time this isn’t a condescending raised eyebrow or amused raised eyebrow, it’s an _‘Oh my god, you’re completely and utterly insane, aren’t you?’_ raised eyebrow.  And yeah, maybe I am.  Still, it’s a pretty damn valid question. “I have already explained to you the semantics behind-”

My eyes dart to Uhura.  “Then how did you know what I was thinking?” Her movements are a little fidgety too, minute little signs here and there, only visible for someone specifically looking for it.  “I mean, I didn’t say anything out loud, so how else could you have known?” There’s a pause where my eyes flick to Spock and Spock looks at me like he’s just seen a ghost, which can only mean one thing.  _Ah, shit._   “Except you thought I said something, didn’t you?”

“I did.”

Oh.

_Oh._

That explains a lot.  Kinda.  Not really.  Whatever was in that drink, yeah, our bodies (and minds apparently) are definitely starting to take notice.  I’m still fidgeting and my skin is still simmering and burning and itching and that’s not a good thing.  Nothing ever good comes from a list of symptoms like that, being as not normal and weird as they are; I’m definitely putting this on the ‘bad’ list for now.  A decision which is practically confirmed by holy divination when my gaze slides to Spock, who apparently now has rampant telepathy, and he raises an eyebrow at me.  Shit.  He can probably hear exactly what I’m thinking right now, which also means I should probably head out before something stupid happens or is said or is done, because apparently we have penchants for really inconvenient ‘something’s happening. 

“I believe you’re analysis is most accurate, Captain.”

I pause, thinking about how fucking weird it is that Spock can just hear what I’m thinking, before I shake my head and squeeze my eyes shut.  “To which one; the retiring early part, or the penchant for shit part?  ‘Cuz both are damn accurate.”

“To both.”

Yeah…he’s probably right.  I twirl my previously forgotten drink, peering into the liquid depths before gracelessly downing it in one gulp.  Better do it now while the whim is still with me, I guess.  “This is so fucking weird it isn’t even funny, by the way.  I thought you got over the whole ‘reading my mind without actually trying to’ thing months ago.  What ever happened to that?” I ask as I begin walking, but not before making sure Bones sees me leave now so that he doesn’t get a panic attack when he’s looking for me later.

“I…do not know.  Perhaps you are, as my mother would say, existing loudly?”

“Is that, like, a thinly veiled Vulcan insult?”

“Hardly.  Some humans, especially humans with high psi aptitude scores, simply tend to have… _stronger_ and more _pervasive_ thoughts than others.  That is all that is meant.”

“Oh… Is it just me?” We transition into the dense crowds of the plaza, Spock seeming to take more care than usual to remain untouched.  For the most part it works, which is good…I guess.  For Spock, at least.  For me its hell, because the more we weave through the crowd, the more the buzzing increases and increases and increases all until it’s a thrumming _and_ a buzzing _and_ a burning. 

In some ways it’s a bit like a pulse; there but not there.  Slightly more troublesome than a pulse, sure, and a little more than just simply being there, yeah, because it doesn’t matter how much I fidget and move and twitch, nothing fucking helps.

“Yes.”

My nails scratch at my skin and even as we move my eyes are still darting and my fingers tapping and my legs bouncing and god, this is fucking annoying. “Oh…”

“It is quite troublesome.”

The laugh I give in response is just a bit strained.  But only just a bit.  “Yeah, being stuck in my head all day, who’d want that?”  And yeah, maybe the teasing grin I give isn’t quite teasing enough.  Just maybe.

“That is not what I meant,” He seems to admonish with a pointed look that’s almost a glare but not quite.

“Uh-huh.”

We make a turn onto a fairly empty street, tucked away in the back corners of the city where there only a few stray people and a few wayward house lights to see us.  No huge crowds, no spectacular clustering, nothing but the moons up above and the pavement we’re walking on.

Yeah, you’re welcome Spock. 

“Although,” A glare is sent my way for the ‘you’re welcome’ comment, I’m think.  Either that or he’s glaring just for the hell of it, which could totally be a possibility, “I do believe that it should be noted that I did warn against the dangers of accepting and consuming unidentified substances from alien hosts.”

I sigh.  I’m not surprised, but still, I sigh.  “Are we back on that again?”

“The symptoms we are experiencing are more than likely caused by the drink we consumed.”

“No shit, Sherlock,” I say because he’s right and I know it, but I still don’t see why it needs to be brought up.  Again.  “I’ll make a note of it in my Captain’s Log, happy?”

“Marginally.”

“Hmph.” I roll my eyes too, just for extra measure.  Just in case he can’t already feel the irritation simply rolling off me in waves, because subtlety is not my goal here.  “We’re almost there, right?”

“Affirmative.”

“Good.”  I let out a tired puff of breath as I cross my arms and continue walking.  Just because I can’t sit still does not mean I signed up to run a marathon, thank you very much.  Even if that marathon is only a block walk down an empty street with no one but a stoic Vulcan to keep company, the ideal is the same.  Of course, ‘almost there’ is sort of a relative term and Spock is sort of a relative person, so for all I know we could really be thirty minutes away from the building and I just don’t know it.  Also, see Spock’s many moods of dickery and its correlation to distance walked; the higher his mood of dickery is, the longer distance the term ‘almost there’ can apply to.  Even though I don’t remember walking that far to-

“We are approximately one thousand feet from the building in which our temporary quarters rest.”

Oh right, existing loudly.  I’ll have to work on that.

“Thank you.”

“Usually when someone says thank you, they don’t sound so snarky.  Just sayin’.”

“Duly noted.” Mhmm, I’m sure, I think as the building we’re staying in finally comes into view.  It’s tall and square in all its modern glory, sitting on the side of the city which is distinctly post-First Contact.  I’m not complaining, that’s for sure, with all its symmetrical angles and sharp corners and glass contours and boxed shapes and an inside that matches the outside.  The walls are white, as we step through the glass doors into the lobby of the building, and the furniture is all sleek silver and blank white, careful curves with bright pops of neon color.  There are couches that aren’t really couches, chairs that are kinda chairs but not really because applying Terran terms to non-Terran items is slightly more than just a little moot and there are paintings that are kinda paintings but not really.

And elevators too, because apparently cultural diffusion works with smiles and it works with stairs but it doesn’t work with goddamned elevators.  It’s actually a lot more problematic than it sounds, considering we’re staying in the penthouse suite of an eighteen story building and all.  I actually feel like I’m five years younger for the first time in forever, like I’m back at basic with four-minute miles and sixty pull-ups in two minutes and that whole shebang, except now the miles are in stair form.  Which would be a total bitch by the way, if that were an actual thing.  The eighth circle of Hell: Stair Miles, maybe?  I like the sound of that.

By the time we reach the last flight of stairs - correction; I’ve reached the last flight, Spock is already at the top because fuck him - I’m breathing a lot heavier than a Starfleet Captain should and Spock…goddamned bastard looks just as perfect and infuriatingly handsome and distractingly sexy and - and he’s staring at me.  With two raised eyebrows and an oddly curious look and – _shit._

_Oh, shit._

Rampant telepathy.  Existing too loudly.  High psi ratings.  Got’cha

“So, I know you mentioned it, but…” I begin as start jogging up the remainder of the steps to get to Spock, grinning as I meet him at the top and totally trying to ignore the fact that every single thing I think is free game between us.  “You up for getting your ass whooped in chess?” I finally finish, my goal of breaking the awkward silence at least partially successful-ish.  I mean, thinking about Spock is always awkward for me to begin with, but thinking about Spock when he’s actually in my head is just fucking weird.

The fact that when I do finally begin moving towards the stairway exit I totally trip over nothing but air and my own two feet does not help anything, at all.  I have a one way ticket to falling on my face and never living it down for fuck’s sake, which is probably a damn accurate summary of how things should’ve played out.  But they don’t.  Because should’ve is a key word, and key words are always key when Spock is involved.  Especially when Spock being involved somehow turns into Spock literally catching me.

The buzzing explodes.

Our skin is rubbing together.  It’s shifting and pressing and the buzzing is now a ringing that’s persistently consuming me, but this time there’s nothing gentle about it.  Running down my spine and jumping along my skin, one of Spock’s hands is wrapped around my wrist while the other is pressing against my lower back to keep me steady in a way that somehow (distractingly, amazingly, fantastically, terribly) had his hand sliding _under_ my shirt in the process. And then there are our legs, which are tangled, and our chests, which are pressed tightly together, and our lips, which are so close, and then…then there’s this stinging.  This burning sensation that’s just as pleasant as it is unpleasant, as it jumps along my nerves and through my body.  It’s addicting, in a super weird way I think might be taking away the need to move and fidget and strum and shift because –

Wait…what were we talking about?

I don’t know;there’s this thrumming in my head that makes it hard to think and this instinct in the back of my mind that says _more_ and this need… There’s this need and this want and… Spock’s staring at me all wide-eyed and I’m staring at him probably all flustered and confused and…

And before I can even think it through I’m closing the gap between us.

_More._

My skin is searing.  It’s bubbling.  Where his hands are the itch is gone and it feels so good and it’s like that’s all I need – his hands and his lips and his hips and just _everything_.  I need it.  God, _yes_ , I need it and this and everything because there’s so much yes to so many things.

 

 

 

The door closes behind us with an automatized whoosh and never mind the fact that I don’t ever remember it opening or ever remember crossing the landing or ever remember much that isn’t Spock and me…and Spock and how odd this whole thing is.  Odd, because the way Spock lips are pressed to mine is so tentative and the way his hands are on my hips is almost a little shy, even as he’s backing me up against the wall.  It’s odd, so fucking odd, but touching has never felt so damn good and my mind – my poor, poor mind - is nothing but frantic bursts of sight and sound and touch and feel at this point.  And it doesn’t matter that he’s awkward and that it’s like he wants to do something but he doesn’t know what and he doesn’t know how because it’s _Spock_ and Spock…

Well, it’s a dam good thing that _I_ do know what to do.

With one hand grasping at the shoulder of his shirt, my other hand travels up to the back of his neck and _pulls;_ twists his head and forcefully keeps him in place and deepens the kiss all in one.  Open mouthed and nipping teeth and desperate, desperate, _desperate_ needs-

_Oh god._

His hands are gripping tightly – too tightly - bruising my hips and I’m pulling at his hair, which is probably bruising too and right now I’m a little confused as who is who and what is what but the amount of actual shits I give are in the negative, so fuck it.My tongue brushes past Spock’s barely closed lips, totally making him shiver – or maybe that was the whole fucking it thing.  He shivers again; damn telepathy.  Or wonderful telepathy, still not sure.  My hand brushes against the hem of his shirt but he doesn’t react, probably too focused on the _kissing_ and _bruising_ and _wanting_ and _needing_ and _getting_ to stop me.  I let my hand slip past the hem and…and hot damn, I’ve been waiting for this for so fucking long.  My fingers are grabbing and groping and sliding down slick planes of lean muscle and strong tendons and cool, damp skin without thought, because _holy fuck_ that’s hot. 

Spit is dribbling down my chin is small rivulets, and Spock is…he’s kissing me back like everything depends on it, which is way hotter than it should be.  His brow is a little furrowed and his lips are hot and smooth against mine and his tongue - _god, his fucking tongue –_ is stroking and slipping against mine in these awkward, frantic movements that feel fan-fucking-tastic.  My hands are skimming along Spock’s body, greedily taking everything they can get because this is different and it’s never been like this.  We’ve had sex…a lot…but we’ve never been intimate.  And there’s a difference between those two things, I just…I just can’t think of what it is right now.  Or why it’s important.

Not when Spock is over me like he his and when he’s pinning me to the wall and when he’s pulling his lips away with a slick _pop_ that resounds in the otherwise silent hallway like nothing else.  And especially, oh hell, especially not when he begins to kiss along my jaw and down my neck in wet pecks and soft sucks that pretty much send my eyes rolling back in my head and my body falling pretty goddamn limp in his arms. 

Which, by the way, I’m sure is a fucking sight to see.  All loose and flustered and glassy-eyed and parted, wet, swollen lips and heady breaths and even headier moans and pants that are way, way too tight and-

_Oh!_

A particularly hard suck is given to the patch of skin right under my jaw, the cry that spills from my mouth half a moan, half a groan and half I-don’t-even-know-what.  That describes a lot of things though; like, since when did Spock’s hand get tangled in my hair and when did he start getting so – _ah –_ possessive?  Gone are the shy, awkward, tentative kisses that don’t know what to do - not that I’m complaining – because in their place are these rough sucks and aggressive nips and sharp pecks that are definitely gonna be leaving bruises tomorrow morning. 

Oddly enough, I’m okay with that.

The fact that Spock just discovered that one place behind my ear and so every fuck I ever gave is gone has absolutely nothing to do with it.  Has nothing to do with the sucking and nipping and where in all of hell did he learn this?  Seriously?  Like, this should be illegal - especially when a particularly hard suck and the hand stroking my abdomen make my hips buck up into his.  Yeah, this should so be illegal and court marshall worthy and not allowed because the friction alone is almost enough to make me come undone right here and now. And I don‘t even care how embarrassing or humiliating that would be because the friction of his leg and the feel of his own need sharply pressing into me and the _ohmyfuck_ , that’s intoxicating would be so absolutely worth it.  Especially when his hips follow mine back for just a moment longer than they should’ve and they’re pressing and rubbing and _holy shit-fuck-damn-motherfucker_ I can’t even think.

The haze has only gotten worse, this fucking need and just – _touch._ I need to touch him even though my hands are pretty much already full of him, lean muscles skinny contours and all, and I want.  I want _something_ so badly and that something is somewhere in between Spock’s body pressing against mine and his lips on my neck and collarbone and his hands doing whatever the fuck they’re doing right now and his tongue just doing…whatever it’s been doing because that’s been so fantastic it’s ridiculous.  I just…I want.  I want all of it.  Everything.

My hips rock back into Spock’s, movements jagged and rough as another moan is ripped from me.  “Jim…” Spock gives one last final suck, before grasping my chin and taking my lips again.  My hands jolt to grasp onto something – _anything –_ and I’m pretty sure I’m panting. 

Or maybe that’s Spock.  No, it’s probably me.  I can’t even tell anymore.

Our movements are sharp and heady and rough and unfiltered.  Our hips are rolling and pressing and writhing and searching; for friction and touch and feel and need.  Spock’s hands are tracing over me, over my sides and my stomach and my thighs and somewhere in all that, my legs have found themselves wrapped around his waist and his hips pinning mine to the wall.  I don’t know when it happened, just that I don’t really care enough to try and figure it out.  Not when he’s totally pressing into me and I’m totally pressing into him.  Our hips are rocking ( _god,_ that friction!) and I’m shivering because I’m so damn close and he’s still kissing me and my hands are still grasping and rubbing and taking and taking and _taking_ and his fingers are now pressing to my temples and…

“ _Jim.”_

-x-X-x-

**_Unnamed Planet. June 10, 2263_ **

No.

“Spock!  Hey, hey, hey; stay with me.”

Nononononono.

“Keep your eyes open and talk to me.  I need you to talk to me, Spock.  Okay?  Can you do that for me?”

There’s green everywhere.  On his chest.  On my hands.  On the ground.  On his shirt and my shirt and his skin and my skin and our shirts and our skin and its seeping into everything.  It’s running from his lips and trickling from his chest and onto my fingers and hands and… it’s everywhere.  I’m trying…trying to stop the bleeding…I’m trying to…to…

“Spock, look at me!  I know you’re still there, look at me, damnit!”

This wasn’t…This wasn’t supposed to fucking happen.  It was…It was…

His lips are parting, and when they do his voice is thin and reedy and raspy, but it’s there.  It’s fucking there.  _He’s_ fucking here. “Captain…”

The scans were clear. They weren’t supposed to be wrong; not this time.

“That’s right, it’s me,” His face feels cold.  Colder than usual under the hand that’s cupping his cheek.  His eyes are slipping closed – _nononononono -_ and his head is lolling to the side.  “Spock!  Look at me!”

They were primitive.  Not supposed to be there.  Spears.  Torn lung.  Ripped heart muscle.  Internal bleeding.  This wasn’t supposed to happen.  I don’t know…I don’t…

_No._

I don’t remember when I started pressing our foreheads together, or when I started clasping my hands together, and I don’t know when it started working, but…whatever.  It’s good.  That’s good.  “That’s right, just look at my face, okay?  Chekov and Uhura and Scotty they’re working on this.  They’re gonna get us out of here.”

His voice is barely murmur, “Tell Lieu-”

“No.”

_Nonononononono._

“You’re gonna make it through this, Spock, because you have to.  Because I need you to.”  Giotto’s here somewhere, floating around in the background of this giant fucking cave we’ve made our shelter.  He’s here, but I don’t care.  “I need you to not die because I can’t do this alone and you can’t…you can’t let me down.  You’re my First Officer.  You can’t let me do this alone, promise me that, okay?”

“I…I…”

Spock’s lips taste like copper.  They taste like copper and dirt and so many other unpleasant things I’d rather forget about right now, because under it all they also taste like Spock.  And that…he can’t die.  I can’t let him.

 

 

 

“Spock, say something.” Our foreheads are still pressed together, our hands clasped and our lips are so close and I’m so desperate because this can’t be happening.  I was just beginning to figure it out.  Just beginning to figure out how to fix thisand all the fucked up-ness that is _us_ and then…this.  “Spock!  Spock, Look at me!  C’mon, look at me!”

He’s not responding.  I don’t miss being shot at anymore.  His pulse…it’s way too low.  I can barely feel it against my palm.

His lips still taste like copper, but this time there’s no response.  Not even a twitch.  There’s blood everywhere; my lips, my hands, my shirt, my face.  It’s all green.  “Spock, please…”

I sound desperate.  Weak.  Like I’ve given up and he has too and my voice cracks because I’m rambling and telling him things and I don’t even know what I’m saying except that it’s _something_ and it’s not working.  His eyes are falling shut – _no -_ and I can’t…I can’t…

There’s a hand on my shoulder right as I press our lips together one last time; propriety be damned.  I’m moving my lips against his and I’m hoping and praying and…and…I should’ve done this long time ago.  I shouldn’t have avoided him.  I should’ve told him.  I shouldn’t have waited.  There are so many things I shouldn’t have done. 

“Captain.”

The hand on my shoulder tries to jostle me, but I’m still pressing against Spock in small gestures and our foreheads are still resting together.  My breath is puffing against his skin, which is cold – so, so cold - and my hand is squeezing his because this can’t be happening.

Right as things might’ve turned out okay.

“Captain, the ion storm has passed.”

Spock’s not moving.  He’s not…it’s not working.  It’s not…

“Captain, what are your orders?”

I can’t… I think I’m screaming.  I don’t know.  Or maybe that’s just inside my head.  I think, maybe, that might… I don’t know.  Maybe I’m going crazy.  Maybe…maybe…

“Captain!”

Spock’s not moving.

-x-X-x-

_**The Enterprise - Location Unknown. June 17, 2263** _

There’s a reason _The Enterprise_ is a flagship - ha, who am I kidding? _The_ flagship – of Starfleet.  And it’s a damned good reason too. Every captain wants her, would kill to have her, and the reasons are so obvious its painful.  She’s a beauty, all state-of-the-art interior with modern curves and contours to back it up.  Most ships only have about eight full-sized decks and two, maybe three, wings; _The Enterprise_ has twelve full-sized decks and four full wings, with a crew of four hundred and ninety six at any given time, but the possibility of at least one thousand, five hundred.  She has fourteen recreation rooms, four mess halls, three gyms - two of them with their own sparring spaces -thirteen observation decks, and somewhere around six hundred different quarters for cadets, ensigns, lieutenants, ambassadors - everyone.  God, she’s perfect.  The latest technology – the newest comm updates, the latest warp core maintenances, the most recent main frame upgrade – the most brilliant weapons – phasers, torpedoes, beams, everything – anything a ‘Fleet Captain could ever want.

Conclusion?  There isn’t much that goes against the  _USS Enterprise._ Not really, I mean, she’s beautiful and big and Christ is she expensive.  Did I say big?  Because, yeah, she fucking is.  She’s 910 meters long, which doesn’t sound like much until you actually see her in all her beautiful glory and…and I digress.  Point is, 910 meters is really fucking big – except when you’re trying to avoid your Vulcan First Officer. 

Not that it would matter anyways, since once things escalate to the point of avoidance there isn't a frickin'  _solar system_  in the whole frickin’ universe that's big enough to do me any good.  Those are Bones’ words, not mine, for the record.  An important distinction to make, I tell you, because contrary to popular belief I’m _not_ hiding.  Yeah, I _was_ hiding and I _was_ avoiding, but that was before…well, let’s just leave it at that.

It was before. 

I’m not gonna lie about it or try and be coy to save face; I avoided him.  I hid.  I conveniently lied.  I denied.  After the whole the Irriat incident – or incidents, really - I pussied out like a coward and I’m pretty sure the entire ship, hell, all of Starfleet, knows it too.  Well, correction, _we_ pussied out, because it takes two.  Because Spock isn’t completely innocent in all of this, because ‘Spock’ and ‘accidental’ just aren’t two words that go together because I don’t think he even knows what accidental avoidance is.  He says what he means and does what he says, simple as that. 

If it didn’t have to do with work, we didn’t talk about it, and if we weren’t on the bridge together, then we weren’t together at all.  We cancelled chess matches and we ate lunches in anywhere that wasn’t the mess (i.e. sickbay, communications, science labs, the list goes on).  Reports were filed electronically and if it didn’t absolutely need to be said then it probably wasn’t said at all.

It lasted for two goddamn weeks.  Probably two of the stupidest weeks of my life, but whatever.  Semantics.

Because it was still two fucking weeks – and then Spock died.  Okay; died, almost died, same thing.  He _almost_ died, but the thing with almost dying is that there’s still that good twenty-four hour window where everyone thinks you’re dead and it was hell.  I don’t remember much of it, or anything at all really, but I do remember blurs of colors and moving objects, vague thoughts and feelings and hollow emptiness. 

I remember being fucking terrified. 

Suddenly, the whole avoiding Spock thing seemed really stupid.  And it was.  Spock…he deserves to know.  Needs to know.  It’s only right, since apparently everyone else on this goddamned ship – hell, in the goddamned fleet - already knows.  Nothing quite says subtlety like a good ‘ol betting pool, I guess.

( _‘Does the Captain purposefully fuck up missions to get fucked?’; ‘How long will it take before they hook up?’; ‘Have they already hooked up?’)_

Anyways, that’s not important.  What is important is that it’s gonna happen.  Doesn’t matter that I’ve been saying that for the past week; I’m gonna fucking do this.  I don’t know what exactly I’m gonna do, or what I’m gonna say - saying _Hey buddy, good job on the whole not dying thing, ‘cause that would’ve really sucked_ seems kinda crass, a little inappropriate and really not helpful - but I’m gonna say _something_ and I’m gonna do _something._   Preferably before Spock actually does die, like for real.

Or before I actually die, because it’s not like that’s outside the realm of possibilities or anything. 

The keypad next to the door of Spock’ quarters buzzes as my fingers press against it, but only after finally deciding that using my override codes probably isn’t the best idea.  Neither is barging through the shared bathroom we have, for that matter.  Something about being crass and uncouth, that ringing doorbells is only socially acceptable and anything else, well…isn’t.

Eloquent, I know; Uhura would be so proud.

Swiftly, the door slides open and there’s a beep as it does, a shifting of fabric as I slowly step into Spock’s quarters.  A wave of dry heat hits me and that… wow.  I think…I miss that.  Having to adjust the thermostat for chess nights, trying to figure out how the hell to replicate traditionally non-replicated Vulcan food, learning that brewing tea is a lot harder than it looks, I think...I…

Maybe.  I don’t know.

“Captain?”

The door slides closed behind me. 

Oh, right.  Spock.

He’s standing there in the middle of the room, looking at me with his head tilted to the side, hands clasped behind his back in a parade rest.  His black undershirt is clinging tightly-

No.  Bad Kirk.

“Do…you require anything, Captain?”

And this, kids, is why you always prior plan.  Because here I am, doing what I should’ve done weeks, months, years ago, and I don’t have a fuck’s idea of what to say.  Hell, I don’t even know if I know why I’m here.  I mean I do, but at that same time I don’t.  Because ‘ _I’m sorry I’ve been avoiding you because that was stupid and you almost died and…yeah, you already know all of this?’_ Sounds accurate but seriously unhelpful, and _‘See, thing is that I’m totally attracted to you and you’re totally attracted to me, so we should totally hook up,’_ sounds just plain counterproductive because this is Spock.  And Spock is a Vulcan.  And Vulcans don’t take too kindly to being hit on.

Which is exactly why prior planning is important, because when you don’t then you end up saying the first thing that comes to mind and if you’re anything like me, the first thing that comes to mind is bound to be something really stupid.  “How many times have you and Uhura had sex?”

Yeah.  Really, really, really _fucking_ stupid.

“Pardon?”

“Not, like, an exact number because that’d be creepy but, like, an estimate.  Or a guess.”

And…well…I guess… Wait, what?

I mean, seriously?

C’mon, mouth.  What.  The.  Fuck.  Are.  You. Doing?

Shit; he’s staring.  Staring at me like I’ve gone crazy - raised eyebrows, pursed lips, the whole shebang - and y’know what?  I probably have.  And y’know what else?  It’s probably his fault too.  Ever think of that, pointy?

“Jim… Are you…feeling well?”

“It could even be a guesstimate, really.  Yeah, just guesstimate.”  Yeah, I’m definitely just saying shit with the hopes that deep space will swallow me whole before this can go any further.  But meteor showers work too; I’ve never experienced one of those, always wanted to though. Then again, I hear black holes are really nice this time of year.  And the carnivorous plants down in Science Lab 8 seem really friendly, I’m sure they’d love to help me with my terminal case of ‘chronic stupid’.

“You wish…” Spock starts, then stops. 

Okay...so this definitely isn’t one of my finest moments.  Or anywhere close.  Once I had thought rock-bottom was hitting on a Klingon diplomat after two glasses of Andorian ale; I was wrong.

And I think Spock knows it too, knows that I know at least, that this isn’t one of my finest moments.  Actually, I know he knows, especially when he leans his head backwards and…and there’s something in his eyes.  It’s shifting, clicking in place, like- “You wish to know the number of times the Lieutenant and I copulated during the duration of our romantic relationship?”

Oh.  Well, when you say it like that, it sounds creepy.  Which it isn’t, I promise! 

…Except that it kinda is, but that’s aside the point.  “Yeah, kinda?”

Spock cocks his head to the side, “Kinda?” The word sounds odd coming from his lips, informal slang sounding stiff with his nearly monotone voice. 

“Okay, okay; yes!  But it’s not… it’s not what it sounds like!  I mean, it is, but it isn’t.  It’s not creepy, I mean.  Even if it is.  Never mind, I give it up.  It’s creepy and I’m a creeper and I give up, okay?”  I ramble.  Not that it matters, since Spock seems to have lost focus back at the first ‘okay’.  So much for a captive audience.

“No more,” His head is tilted in that way that says he’s considering something.  “Then the number of times you and I have copulated.”

Goddamn Vulcans.  Them and their stupid telepathy and stupid ‘we art mightier than thou’ attitude and just stupid everything.  Stupid Spock and his stupid not being stupid-ness.  Fuck him.  Seeing past what I was getting at; a comparison.  On a scale of one to Starfleet, how fucked up is our relationship?  Very, apparently.  Because we have sex, a lot of it, I guess, and that’s…it’s changed things.  It’s changed _us._ Or it’s changed me at least, because sometimes I’ll be damned before I ever know what’s going on behind that bowl-shaped haircut of his. 

 “Oh…well, I-I mean-”

“You are unsure.”

“Oh, I guess when you-”

“When in terms of our relationship, you find yourself unable to discern an appropriate label which describes our interactions, correct?  To you this is crucial, due to the weight that is put on defining social labels by human standards.”

“Uh, I guess, look Spock, I think… I think… Actually?” My teeth chew at the inside of my cheek, “I don’t know what I think.” And that right there is probably one of the truest fucking things I’ve said in a long, long time.  Because I don’t, I really don’t know what the hell to think.  Or do.  Or say.  Because here we are, sitting on the edge of _something_ and neither of us know what this _something_ is, just that it’s _something_ that’s gonna change everything.  But we’re sitting here and we could either jump over the edge, or we could stay here and just do nothing and for a while I was okay with that because jumping meant admitting things and doing nothing was so much easier, but then…but things happen.

They change. 

And now I can’t imagine not jumping and I can’t imagine just sitting here, waiting.  We’ve been through way too goddamn much to just sit here, twiddling our fucking thumbs for the rest of forever.

“You are confused.” Spock takes a step forward, eyebrow raised and body just a little less stiff than before.  It’s a big thing, for Spock at least.

Not that I’m helping much, when I just sigh and throw my hands up in the air because _no shit, I’m confused._ “And you aren’t?”

He seems to pause for a moment, to stand there and think.  His eyes trail on the carpet of his quarters, eyes dancing on the unintentional gradient of colors in a way that is so not appropriate.  Now is not the time to be appreciating the dandiness of interior design, okay Spock?  Logic and analysis are great and all – until you get to the point that you’re so far off the edge that they just don’t apply anymore.  And here, I don’t think they apply.  I think logic and analysis were thrown out the metaphorical window a long fucking time ago.  Like, Beta Psi, a long time ago.

But I don’t know if Spock really agrees with me on that one, since he still hasn’t said anything, and doesn’t look like he will anytime soon either.  “Assumption number one; you find me physically attractive.”

Wait…what?

My head snaps up, eyes probably as wide as saucers, and body tense and rigid and _what?!_

“Uh…Spock?”

“Either accept or deny the assumption.”

Maybe he’ll nerve pinch me, if I accept.  Or maybe he’ll reject me in that weird, Vulcan passive-aggressive way of his.  Or maybe he just won’t say anything.  They’re all possibilities, all reasons to deny what I’m pretty sure he already knows, all things that make what I actually end up saying really fucking-

 “Accepted.”

-Confusing.

Spock nods his head.  No drop-kicking, no passive-aggressivism, just…a nod and a slow step forward.  “Assumption number two; you are sexually attracted to me.”

“Spo-”

“Physical attraction is not equitable to sexual attraction.  Accept or deny.”

“I-I…” My throat feels thick, which is odd.  And weird and - _oh, hell,_ “Accept.”

Another nod.  Another step. 

My gut is churning and my stomach is squirming, like it doesn’t like where this is going.  Then again, I think that can be said for pretty much all of me.  Like there’s a lead weight that that’s trapped inside me and it just keeps sinking and sinking and it just keeps getting worse and worse; I feel like I could throw up.

“Assumption number three; you are emotionally attracted to me.”

I slightly pause, before looking up at Spock with uncertainty.  Maybe I see something there or maybe it’s just Spock being so Spock, but when I look up my answer is immediate, “Accept.”

“Assumption number four; you are mentally and intellectually attracted to me.”

This time there isn’t even a pause, “Accept.”

“And all of this,” Wait, when did Spock get so close?  He’s only a couple feet away, with his body still in parade rest and his head still cocked to the side and eyebrows raised, “Stems from the underlying premise that you are in love with me.”

Whoa.

Umm…I…

That escalated quickly.  Like, really, really, really, really, _really fucking quickly._

My stomach sinks.  I know my eyes must be wide and I know I must look ridiculous, but…

Love is a big word.  Commitment is ten letters and three syllables; love is even bigger.

“Spock,” I mouth for words because, really?  What can I say?  Huh, destiny?  What am I supposed to say?  ‘Sorry Spock, wrong number’?  “Love…that’s.  I don’t - I don’t know if…I don’t think-”

“You are unsure.” And the way he says it seems so…no.  Stop it.  Stop it right now, James Tiberius Kirk. 

“Love is a big word,” I find myself whispering, despite how fucking stupid that sounds.   It’s like, someone brings up love and all I can do is regress to being fifteen again.  Actually correction; twelve.  If I were acting like I was fifteen again, there would’ve been a penis joke by this point, which there hasn’t been. 

Not the point.  Love, Spock, big words; that’s the point.

“Perhaps,” He nods as he takes another step forward.  He’s looking right at me, his eyes swirling and…I don’t know.  “Factual Statement number one,”

I didn’t even realize my eyes had closed until they snapped open. 

_What?_

“I am physically attracted to you.”

Um…didn’t see that coming.

“Factual statement number two; I am sexually attracted to you.”

Or that.

“Factual Statement number three; I am…” He seems to pause for a moment, before catching my gaze in this _look_ , “emotionally attracted to you.”

Or that.

“Factual statement number four; I am mentally and intellectually attracted to you.”

Or that.  Or-

Oh.  I know…I know what comes next.  I know-

“And all of this stems from the underlying premise that… that…” He falters.  His face inches from mine (but seriously, when did he get so close?), his cheeks green (why did he get so close?) and his eyelashes fluttering.  “A future union between us is not outside the realm of foreseeable possibilities.”

Love is a big word, even for Spock.  Union is only five letters, two syllables and love is still bigger.

“Now, Mr. Spock,” I give a shaky grin - because that’s all I can really manage at this point because _holy fuck_ either I’m dreaming or going crazy; pick one – as I wrap my arms loosely around Spock’s neck.  “That isn’t your way of saying you could possibly, eventually love me, is it?”

Sometimes, being an ass is the best way to cope.

Then again, sometimes it’s not.  Sometimes it’s flipping off destiny, spitting on fate, and kicking diplomacy in the balls.

And sometimes…sometimes it’s your First Officer gently kissing you that trumps it all.  Yeah, I think I like that.  Could get used to it too.

Even if it’s chaste and shy and ending far too quickly, it’s nice.  “That a yes?”

“Perhaps.”

Yeah, I could get used to this, as I lean back in and capture Spock’s lips.  I’m not as gentle as him, but I think we both already knew that.  My tongue traces his lips and my hands skim over the hem of his shirt and maybe-

“Jim,” He pulls away, a total not-glare threatening to show as it does, “There are things we must discuss before this progresses any-”

And then I’m kissing Spock.  _Really_ kissing him.  Hard and rough and with tongues and hands and teeth and nipping and biting and licking and so much that I almost can’t keep up with it all.  _Almost._   His hand slips onto the back of my neck, grasping for hold as my hand slips under his shirt.

Because fuck diplomacy, that’s why.

-x-X-x-

_**Commander Spock's Quarters. June 18, 2263 - Nine Terran hours later** _

Something’s pressing into my fingers.  Fleeting touches tracing my jaw, tender strokes to my abdomen, warmth heating my back; light sensations that I can feel just on the edge of sleep. 

I groan, my eyes fluttering open into darkness. 

“You are awake.”

There’s a rumbling from behind me, a deep voice vibrating and a person…a person who’s lying beside me.  In bed.  And…

It all hits me at once.

Everything that happened; Spock talking and me kinda listening, but then again kinda not.  Me swearing and Spock telling me these things and looking so confused and so unsure and me listening.  Or trying to, at least.  Trying to listen to these words that said things I hadn’t even been able to admit to myself yet and then…Spock-me-us kissing.  Touching, kissing, grappling - clothes coming off quicker than most people could put them on.  So much want, heat, need, desire, want that it had been unbearable. 

Still was, in some ways.

“I wasn’t dreaming,” I mutter as I turn to face Spock, his brown eyes just the tinniest bit softer than usual as his fingers skimmed down my chest and arms.  “You’re really here.”

“So it seems.”

“God, you’re such a sardonic asshole,” Which is a funny thing to say since I’m smiling and laughing and pushing against his shoulder groggily.  And it’s a really funny thing to say before kissing a person.  Before looping my arms around his neck and letting my tongue lazily trace the contours of his mouth.  And it’s a really, really funny thing to say before thinking that I could get used to this; these hands on my hips and these bite marks on my neck and these lips on mine.  I could really, really get used-

To a lot of things.

The sudden wail of a klaxon, however, is not one of those things.  Neither is the red flooding Spock’s quarters or my half-exasperated, half-unbelieving yell of “Oh, Fuck it!” I end up giving.

 _Well,_ I look over at Spock, _some things never change._

Because I don’t think it matters who I sleep with or who I date or whatever, diplomacy will always be a bitch.  And I, through Starfleet, will always be diplomacy’s bitch.

Long live the Federation. 

**Author's Note:**

> Thanks so much for reading! If you enjoyed it, maybe leave some kudos? Maybe a comment? Maybe not, but we authors can hope, right? Check me out on [Tumblr](http://se7endevil.tumblr.com/) and [Livejournal](se7endevils.livejournal.com), where I often lurk when not surfing the dark depths of reddit.

**Works inspired by this one:**

  * [The Things We Do](https://archiveofourown.org/works/1047568) by [crimsonswirls](https://archiveofourown.org/users/crimsonswirls/pseuds/crimsonswirls)




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